


Gone Girl

by 1thirteen3



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ALIVE Rhaegal, Calling out Varys' logic, Canon Divergence, Dany gone-girls herself, F/M, Flashbacks, Good for her, Heading back to Essos baby, Slow Burn, So ALIVE Missandei, The repercussions of Varys' actions, They go straight back to Dragonstone, anti-north
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 22:15:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22334047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thirteen3/pseuds/1thirteen3
Summary: After suffering devastating personal loss, and out of fear for her unborn child, Dany takes extreme measures to ensure safety free from the spider's web.Dany gone-girls herself, and Varys gets exactly what he wanted... or does he?"Daenerys leans heavily against the wall, staring out the open window at Dragonstone. The sky is blackening, and the sea is growing rough. A storm is brewing – not just outside. but inside her as well. Deep, and dark inside her very being. But she can weather it. She was not named Stormborn for nothing. She came into the world during the fiercest storm in living memory, and she will leave this world during a fierce storm as well. Or… she won’t. Not really...""Westeros took my pride, and my dignity, and my hope, and my love, and my armies, and my dragon. They took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder."
Relationships: Grey Worm/Missandei, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 1545
Kudos: 831





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first attempt at a fic in this fandom. This is currently a one-shot based on a tumblr post I made as a kind of joke, but that I also really wanted to be a fic, so I wrote it myself.
> 
> Any thoughts / feelings / opinions are appreciated, of course.
> 
> This isn't meant to be salty. It's just one of the many paths Dany could have chosen at this cross-road.
> 
> Also, in this fic they sailed directly back to Dragonstone. So Missadei and Rhaegal are alive because I cannot and will not allow Missandei to die.
> 
> I hope you enjoy

Daenerys leans heavily against the wall, staring out the open window at Dragonstone. The sky is blackening, and the sea is growing rough. A storm is brewing – not just outside, but inside her as well. Deep, and dark inside her very being. But she can weather it. She was not named Stormborn for nothing. She came into this world during the fiercest storm in living memory, and she will leave this world during a fierce storm as well. Or… she won’t. Not really. But that is not what matters now. A storm is brewing outside, and inside her, and those around her are right to fear it. Should fear it. But she does not. She is not just Stormborn. She is the storm. And she is ready. She shall weather whatever comes for her. Just as she always has.

She’s been betrayed before. Oftentimes, to others, she says, in a flippantly false tone, more times than she can count. But in truth, each time is scored on her heart. Her soul. Some of those scores mark deeper than others. They criss-cross so heavily atop one another that sometimes she wonders what her heart looks like inside her battered, and aching chest. Is it a mess of gashes, old and new, each telling their own tale of a time she was used, humiliated, defiled, betrayed?

Of course. Viserys betrayed her by selling her. At the time it was a painful betrayal. A familial betrayal, by her only family. One of the first she could really remember. But time lessened the pain as she came to see him for what he was. And what she meant to him. Or rather, did not mean to him. Jorah. Oh, Jorah. He was inappropriate. Too familiar. Wanted from her what she could never give. But he was loyal. Until he wasn’t. Until he was again. His betrayal had sliced deep into her heart. But she had forgiven him. Had forgiven him and was now left grieving him. Grieving that he died to protect her. To save her. But was that not what he was sworn to do? What he had always said he would do? It made no matter. She mourned her friend. Her first real friend, and her first real betrayal.

But this. What she was facing now. It was an uncomfortable mixture of both. It was a betrayal by family, and a betrayal of one who had sworn her their loyalty.

She’d told him. She’d told him what would happen if he told his sisters about who his true parents were.

Daenerys was no fool. She knew that the annulment was unlawful. She knew how unlikely it was that anyone outside the North would believe the word of a failed, would-be Maester, and the visions of a boy, who claimed not to be a boy, that were given to him by the powers of the Old Gods, which none but those of the North of Westeros followed. But still, she feared. And, now, she knew she was right to. For now her own advisors were betraying her too.

Her nose, long since attuned to the scent of poison, an unfortunate consequence of a childhood spent forever dodging the assassins claw, and now the sense further heightened by the babe trying desperately to grow strong within her belly, could smell the poison lacing the food that the spider had his little birds sending up to her.

He was trying to kill her. He was trying to kill her because now he knew – with thanks, in order, to Jon, to Sansa, to Tyrion – that there was a male with Targareyn blood. A male who did not even want the throne, so he said. A male who had no idea what it meant to be a Targareyn. To suffer because of it. To be exiled, and hunted because of it. To starve, and fear, and cry, and yes, and yes, to feel shame because of it. A male who took no pride in his true name. He endured none of the bad that came with being a Targareyn. And he took none of the pride in being one. Yet they saw him as the better choice.

Why? She did not know. Well, she did. Men are men after all. And men prefer to defer to men, if they must defer to someone.

She should have known. Or maybe in truth she did know. She did issue the spider with a warning should he ever betray her. He had not betrayed her before. Yes, he had tried to kill her before. Many times in fact. But he was not serving her then. He was now. Or, he was supposed to be. But instead of serving her he offered to her false faces and poisonously sweet words while to her enemies he spoke false words of heritage and laced her food with real poison.

She should care more. She knew she should. And she knew that one day she would. But for now, for today, and perhaps for every other day she lived, there was something more important. Her babe, her child. Varys could kill her a thousand times over, conspire to place a thousand Jon’s or Aegon’s or whoevers on the throne. But he would not take her child.

He was smart, she knew. Too smart. Though, and she smirked a little to herself here. Not as smart as he liked to think himself. Daenerys Stormborn had been escaping the assassins noose from the moment she first drew breath. She knew she could outsmart him here. And she had a plan.

It was simple. Almost too simple. She would simply allow him to believe that he had succeeded. That he had won. The spider that felled the dragon! It was laughable. But he was conceited enough to believe it. Men always were. Especially men who aggrandized their own importance in this world the way the spider does.

And believe it she would let him. She would make him. She would make sure of it. For she had a plan. And her life, while precious to her, was nothing compared to the lives of her people and to the burgeoning life of the babe inside her. And it was these lives that relied on her plan working. So work, it shall.

To fake a convincing death you need to bleed. A lot. A poisoning kind of bleed. A treason kind of bleed. She knew the poison the spider was attempting to fill her with. It was a messy one. One which caused the victim to bleed, and bleed from everywhere possible a person could bleed until they could bleed no more. And so bleed she shall.

As soon as she’d caught wind of the spider’s plans she’d begun to siphon her blood. A little each day, though perhaps more than was wise. For Missandei had found her after one of her private bleeding sessions. Weak, and a little disorientated. She had not wanted to involve her people in her plan until the last possible moment. She did not want them in danger. Not the people left to her. The people she loved. The people who loved her in return. The people who would never betray her.

But she had, to her shame, forgotten one fundamental truth. Just as she was willing to bleed for them, they were willing to bleed for her. Missandei had been distraught with worry until Daenerys had filled her in on her plan. Then, despite her protestations, Missandei, with that gentle strength which was stronger and more unbending than any Dany had ever had the privilege to know, Missandei had rallied her real allies to her plan.

The people of Westeos could accuse her of being foreign all they wanted. But it was remarkably convenient now. Neither the spider, nor Tyrion spoke Dothraki, or Valaryian – despite having been amongst her people for years. Shameful really – and so Missandei had no difficulty disseminating the plan. Mhysa, Khaleesi, needed blood. Not much. Just a little from those who were willing.

They were all willing.

Soon. Much sooner than she could have imagined, she had all the blood she would need.

But that would not be enough. She was angry. She felt betrayed. She felt betrayed by Jon. She thought he had loved her. For she certainly loved him. She had given everything she had to him to save his home, yes. But that, to her, was not what showed her love. That was her being a protector. That was the person she was regardless of personal entanglements. She’d offered her help, freely and openly as soon as she had seen the real enemy. Not that anyone knew that. Even Jon seemed to have forgotten that. No, she’d also given Jon Snow herself. Her whole self. Something that she had never done before. Something that shook every bone in her body with terror, but that she’d done regardless. Because she thought she was his, and she wanted him to be hers. But he wasn’t. Not in the end. In the end, he was a Stark. Through, and through.

If she had more of a mind to think about it she would laugh until her sides were sore, then cry until her eyes were dry that people believed him honourable, believed him a Stark because of how he was raised – that the so called ‘taint’ of being a Targaryen would not touch him due to his rearing – yet no one, not a single person in Westeros considered that the way she was raised - poor, alone, starving and friendless - would shape the woman she is now. She had never met the father whose shadow, in this land at least, she would always be forced to dodge lest she ever appear any less than perfect. She had been raised amongst the people, all the people, she’d hungered like them, been afraid like them, been sold, and defiled like them, and it had made her a Queen of the people. But no one saw that. Oh no. In her they only saw the Mad King’s daughter. The ‘taint’ of Targareyn blood. How much difference was there really between being the Mad King’s daughter, and the Mad King’s grandson? And what of Jon’s trueborn father? Her foolish brother, Rhaegar? To many outsiders surely a number of his actions could be considered mad - chasing after prophecies he did not fully understand. Abadoning his lawful wife to the increasingy cruel whims of her increasingly cruel sire. So Jon could also be considered the Mad Prince’s son. But no, he was raised a Stark. Which, apparently absolves all.

Still. She mourned for him too. For what he would miss. But he had pushed her away. From almost the moment she had set foot in that godforsaken, frozen wasteland he had been uneasy around her. Always wary of the judgmental eyes of his siblings, cousins, whatever. And then, once he had found out the truth of his birth he had pushed her away further. To this day she did not know why. He had never given her an answer to that question. Not that she had known how to ask it.

Though, in the end, he hadn’t had to. She had begged, begged him not to reveal the truth to his sisters at this time. Had tried, pulled emotionally taut though she was, to explain to him the grievous repercussions this truth would have for her. But he had made his choice.

He did not know about the babe. This she regretted. But she had not known at the time she had begged him either. It was not until the long march back to Dragonstone that her mind, drenched in denial and crowing about blood magic and curses, had finally allowed her to acknowledge what was there, truly there, growing within her. Life.

But it shouldn’t have had to be about the babe. This she would not bend on. She did not know why he pushed her away. Perhaps it was the relation that bothered him – in which case she could not see how he would want the babe at all, given that it was the product of a love he considered filthy, and she considered pure. Perhaps it was his family – she would not have her child born into an environment where one side of the family despised the other, and her side was significantly lower in numbers.

But beyond all that. She would not, would not, have him out of duty. She knew Jon Snow considered duty to be the highest of callings. Call her selfish, but she did not want herself, and her child to be the feather in the cap of a man doing his duty. ‘How noble of him’ the people would remark, ‘to stand beside the foreign whore’, ‘how honourable’, ‘how dutiful’.

Oh no. She did not need that. She was Daenerys Stormborn. She was no man’s duty. She was the storm. And the storm was coming. It was time to complete her plans. So, to solidify the tragedy, she could not stop there. She needed a diary. Minimum 300 entries on the Daenerys story. The exiled infant story. The homeless, beggar child story. The sold off child bride story. The Mother of Dragons story. The Breaker of Chains story. The girl who dreamed, who hoped of home, of Westeros story. The Jon and Dany story. She’d been writing it for some time now. Ever since she uncovered the spiders plans. Ever since she started to bleed herself, and her people started to bleed with her. It was a beautiful thing, her diary. Bound in dragonhide, with paper from Mereeen. Paper so soft it felt like melting butter on the tips of ones fingers. She’d chosen a place to put it. Somewhere only Jon would think to look. If he even cared to. If he came to Dragonstone at all. She wasn’t sure of anything any longer.

The storm is brewing stronger now. The wind and waves crashing against the shores and walls as though hurrying her along.

Everything was in place. The Dothraki had a drink to still the body to a point where it appeared dead. Dany had learned of it years ago. The Dosh Khaleen had devised it in order to aid wounded Khals. If their body was entirely at rest then they could heal. This would not be what she was using it for. No. She simply needed to appear dead long enough for the spider, and for Tyrion to see her. Then her people, her true people, would place her on a ship and take her back to Essos where she… where she… well, maybe she didn’t belong anywhere. Maybe she was never going to be blessed with a home. But where she could do the most good, be amongst people who loved her, who would never betray her. But importantly, where she could raise her child in peace without the fear of the spider and his machinations.

Essos had no weirwood trees. Essos did not have a place for the Old Gods. She knew even Jon Snow’s brother would not be able to find her as soon as she crossed the Narrow Sea.

The sky lit up as though it were the brightest of days, before going dark again, and thunder rumbled all around. Soon the spider would send one of his little birds to her with a plate full of death. Her people were ready, they were in place. The time had come.

She would tell Jon of the babe one day. Probably soon. He deserved to know at the very least. Even if he wanted the very least to do with it, or her. But only once she was safe. Safe in Essos. Away from Westeros and its treachery.

‘Yes’, Dany thought, ‘Westeros took my pride, and my dignity, and my hope, and my love, and my armies, and my dragon. They took and took from me until I no longer existed. That’s murder.’

And now, it will look like murder.

Even if it is not.


	2. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So time is going to jump around a bit for the next few chapters as we see everything unfold - but it should be very easy to follow.
> 
> Thank you so much to all those who commented on the first chapter :)

_**The morning of:** _

Tyrion had seen countless horrors during his lifetime. He’d been the perpetrator of many horrors himself. He’d felt the last breath leave the lungs of the woman he loved as he held fast to a thick, golden chain around her throat. He’d watched the life drain from the eyes of the man who was his father after he had shot him with a cross-bow. He’d witnessed unmatched destruction as his greatest strategical accomplishment had been implemented, and Blackwater Bay had lit up an unnatural, fluorescent green against the backdrop of a darkened sky littered with the debris of exploded ships and severed limbs instead of stars. The world a cacophony of sounds; screams, wailing, tears, and prayers of men dying an agonizing, aberrant death.

Tyrion had always prided himself on his sharp mind. On his ability to observe a situation and gauge how the particulars of that situation came about, and what they meant with expediency. But this, the scene before him, what he was witnessing now… It was as though a shutter had been drawn between his eyes and his mind, refusing to allow his mind to process what his eyes were seeing. He could not process it. Perhaps he did not want to process it? Perhaps his mind was protecting itself from his eyes? For if what his eyes were seeing was reality… if what his eyes were seeing was reality…

He felt cold. So cold. He could not remember having ever felt so cold. The top of the Wall seemed like a furnace compared to the chilled blood running fast, too fast through his body, to the icy shuddering down his spine.

He took a deep breath in an attempt to steady himself. But even that rattled as though his lungs too had begun to freeze. He took another, just as frozen and unyielding and attempted to take in the scene piece by piece in the hope that doing so would make it make sense. In the hope that doing so might make it untrue.

Avoiding the centerpiece of the room, his eyes laid first upon Missandei. Graceful, calm, stoic, composed Missandei sitting in an ungainly position by the side of the bed, clutching the sheets with one hand and, and, and, something else, the something else that his mind was not prepared for yet, with her other, sobbing soundlessly. How was she sobbing soundlessly when Tyrion could hear her grief so loudly, echoing and booming in his ears, threatening to split his head in two?

Next. Grey Worm. Grey Worm on whose face he’d never seen a single expression stood behind Missandei. But he was not standing at attention. Why not? Grey Worm was always standing at attention. His posture was as slumped as he imagined an Unsullied’s could be, and his face. Oh, his face. Tyrion suddenly desperately missed Grey Worm’s expressionless mien, for the look on his face at this moment was one of such profound loss that Tyrion did not think he had ever seen the like of it. He looked away. He could not bear to witness such emotion on one so usually guarded with their expression. It felt like he were invading a deeply private, and intimate moment.

Numerous other Unsullied soldiers were standing in the room. Their posture resembled Grey Worm’s. Tyrion did not have the strength to look at their faces.

Outside the door dozens of Dothraki were yelling. Restless and angry. Banging the walls with their fists and their arakhs. Tyrion supposed he should be afraid of them. Of what they might do. But all his fear was focused on what he knew he must look at next.

There, in the middle of her bed, looking impossibly, unimaginably small, lay Daenerys Targareyn, her limp hand held in Missandei’s. His Queen. His hope. And she was dead.

Once he saw he could not unsee. The fierce, and determined Queen he knew, the Queen who, while in truth was tiny in stature, filled a room with her presence the moment upon entering it, the Queen who in strength and attitude embodied the very spirit of her House words, his fire and blood Queen, now had no fire. Oh, but oh there was blood. So much blood. It ran from her eyes, and her nose, and her ears and her mouth. How long had she been bleeding? Her silver-white hair was as crimson as his own House colours, drenched in blood as it was. And the sheet she was covered with was dripping and soaked with it as well. Now that he’d seen, and oh, how he wished he hadn’t. He didn’t understand how he hadn’t before noticed the smell. The tangy metallic smell of blood, of death.

He didn’t realise it, but Tyrion’s breath was coming in faster and faster. His fingers were numb, and his body felt leaden. He had to leave the room. He had to get out. He couldn’t look at this. Because this couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be… couldn’t…cou… Tyrion hit the floor in a faint before he could finish his thought.

_**The evening prior to:** _

Daenerys had had Missandei spread the word that she was tired. That she would be taking her supper privately and retiring early. Then, there, in her room, her supposed final resting place, they went over, one more time, the plan.

Before dawn, Missandei would sneak into her chambers and bring her the Dothraki drink. It does not take long to work. As soon as she was settled into her death-like state Missandei would pour the blood. Daenerys was feeling particularly malicious and macabre and so she told Missandei to be liberal with the blood, use plenty, pour some around her (for if she’d been poisoned in truth she would have spent several hours writhing around bleeding and in agony).

Missandei is to then leave, and come back an hour later to discover her body. The Unsullied and Dothraki already have their instructions

Daenerys had considered, at length, what was to be done with the spider once he had succeeded in his mission of murdering her. Naturally, a large part of her screamed inside her mind that he should be executed. It would be an easy thing to have done. Any one of her Unsullied or Blood Riders would have happily taken up the task. And perhaps it would be safer for her child if she were to rid the world of him as he was trying to rid the world of her.

The last, the very last thing she wanted was for her child to live the life she had led. Always hiding. Always running. Always looking over your shoulder for a blade. Always cautious to take a sip of water or bite of bread. Always waking in the night to any and every little noise that could signal an assassin had discovered where you were laying your head that night.

But things would be different for her child. Her child would have her. Would have her, and her two strong dragon brothers, and two loyal armies devoted to keeping it safe.

Besides, she knew that the spiders influence in Essos had dwindled. His little birds no longer fluttered around that continent in the flocks they did when she was a child. He’d gotten lazy. Placed all his focus on Westeros. And with the economy in Essos slowly, but surely beginning to truly thrive, there were fewer and fewer young children he could exploit or terrorize into his service. She doubted he would be able to find her, or her child in Essos. She doubted he’d even learn of their existence. Yes, his influence truly had weakened. And she would have plenty of time to employ people who were trained in such skills and artifice to make sure that that remained the case.

Furthermore, Daenerys knew that there were many things worse than death. And to the spider, his grand plan to dispose of her in favour of Jon failing would be a blow to everything he believed himself to be. He liked to think himself a King Maker. Liked to think he could pull all their strings and they would dance to his tune. Well, she would not. She would let him live so he could implement his plans of folly, and watch from afar as he was hoisted by his own petard.

Grey Worm had been fiercely in favour of execution. He’d heard them talking. Tyrion and the spider. Just like they’d never bothered to learn the languages of her people, they also constantly underestimated the linguistic capabilities of them. They always thought their conversations private, that they spoke with such eloquence and wit that her ‘savages’, even those who spoke some Common Tongue, would not be able to understand the tête-à-têtes of such intellectual, sophisticated men as they were. Fools. They were the ignorant ones. And once again it was to her advantage. Grey Worm had reported the entire exchange back to her.

As she had known would happen, Sansa had spilled Jon’s secret when it wasn’t hers to tell. Daenerys knew that Sansa’s actions had nothing to do with a righteous duty to honest succession, or the well being of her cousin raised as her brother, or even her opinions on Jon’s capabilities as a ruler (which she knew were actually rather low in Sansa’s apparently esteemed estimation given that she argued against and disputed every decision he’d made since he’d been named King). No, Sansa’s treason had everything to do with her own ambition. Like Varys, she was simply using Jon as a pawn to achieve her own ends. It also, she would be a fool not to acknowledge, almost certainly had a lot to do with the Lady of Winterfell’s utter disdain for her personally. But Daenerys had too much going on to dwell on that right now – though she knew, later, when she had the time to think on it, that knowledge would hurt.

So, Sansa had told Tyrion, and Tyrion had told Varys. She will admit, it stung, another betrayal to grow to the never ending list of them, that Tyrion had told Varys instead of coming to her. They had been together for some time now. Working together, planning together. She’d thought they had a friendship of sorts. But, she supposes, even friendships have hierarchies, and Tyrion’s loyalty and friendship was to the spider first. Not her.

She did not know yet how she felt about Tyrion’s betrayal. To his credit, he had counselled marriage between her and Jon. But Varys had promptly shut that down. Why?

Because she was too strong for him. It would be laughable if the situation were not so dire. He was one of the only things in this world that made her weak. She would do anything for him. Had done everything for him. “Who manipulated whom?” she’d said to Sansa Stark. But he hadn’t even needed to manipulate her. She loved him. She would have given him everything. She had given him everything. And yet Varys thought that she would superimpose her will over Jon’s needs and opinions?

No, she knew that it was not Jon that Varys was afraid she was too strong for. Varys was afraid she was too strong for him. That he would not be able to influence her, control her, manufacture and engineer her entire reign to his design. And so, to him, she had to go.

Perhaps had Varys known, and thank the gods he had not (really, what a joke of a Master of Whispers he was), he might have kept her alive long enough to birth the babe. To herald in the Targaryen heir. Jon’s heir. But then he would have gone right back to his scheming. If he thinks she is too strong for him now, he will always think she is too strong for him. He will always be looking for a way to rid the world of her. He had already proven that he thought her disposable. She was a mere woman, while Jon was a man. Once he places him on the throne - as though he is a cyvasse piece for him to move around as he pleases, and not a human being with wants, and feelings, and needs of his own – he could have him marry to form an alliance, produce more heirs. A more suitable woman, pliable, demure, a dutiful, ambitionless wife and queen. Yes, even if Varys did, by some grace of his own deranged version of mercy, decide to keep her around long enough for her to birth her child, he would still dispense of her. Possibly her child too, given that in the eyes of gods and men her child would be a bastard, no one wanted another Blackfyre Rebellion.

But the alternative was just as appalling – once again forced into another marriage – one not desired by either party, though for very different reasons – and then slowly pushed out, ignored, silenced. Queen in name only. Queen only to Jon’s King. Queen only by virtue of marriage and not because she forged herself anew through fire and worked her entire life for it.

As much as she mourned and respected the memory of the mother she never knew – she refused to be like her. She would not be a silent bystander and Targaryen baby-mill. That will never be her only function. That is not her destiny.

Daenerys took a moment to allow herself to be amused by how foolish it was for the spider to kill her before attempting to place his puppet King Jon on the throne. For a man who believed himself so clever, he truly could be remarkably stupid. Without her people they didn’t have the numbers to fight a battle against the combined forces of the Lannister army and the Golden Company, even if he managed to rally the support of every other kingdom, which was unlikely in itself. Westeros was tired of fighting. The War of Five Kings had taken the lives of a whole generation of soldiers, and many of the generation younger. Those that were left had seen more of war than should be stomached in a lifetime. The North, his most likely supporters, had long been bleed dry of fighting men, and had suffered devastating losses during the War for the Dawn. So while their intent, and their pride, and their arrogance may be strong, their people were not.

The Free Folk, she knew, were fiercely loyal to Jon. But they were not kneelers, and she doubted many, least of all all of them, would agree to a fight to place a King on a throne that made no difference to them. Sansa, she supposed, would likely be able to rally what was left of the Vale army to fight. But the Stormlands were a leaderless mess, the Reach was decimated, the Westerlands were under Lannister control, the Iron Islands were firmly on her side, and Dorne would not only refuse to fight for Jon – but might actually declare war on the North themselves due to the so-called legitimacy of his claim being an insult to Princess Elia.

She wasn’t afraid for Jon. She knew he too would see the stupidity of the spider’s plan. The insurmountable odds against him, and refuse to start, to figurehead this fight that he was guaranteed to lose. Yes, he’d gone into battle with unfavourable numbers before when he’d fought Ramsay Bolton for Winterfell. But that was Jon being Jon. That was a cause he cared about. That was him thinking with his honour and not his head. That was a reclamation of his family’s home, safety for his sister, hope for his baby brother, a painfully devastating recklessness that came from having recently died and been returned to a world where he no longer knew his place or purpose, and, and yes, his pride that had pushed him into making the foolhardy charge. He would not have the same ideological motivations now. She knew this.

He had said he did not want the throne. And despite everything that had happened, and not happened between them, she truly believed him when he said that. So no, she was not afraid that he would storm Kings Landing in a imprudent and impulsive attempt at a coup and lose his life in the process. She imagined, if he were not still already there – truly she had no notion of where he was at this moment, communication between them had snuffed itself into near nonexistence towards the end of her stay at Winterfell, that he would simply return to the North and his family and live out his days there. His true home, his true family. The only things he really seemed to care about now that the Army of the Dead had been defeated. She couldn’t spend too much time wondering what his life would look like. What he’d do with his days. Who he’d meet. What he’d do with his nights. Her heart could not handle that. Not right now. Not when it was already throbbing with a million other worries, agonies, disappointments, betrayals, and losses.

No. She could not think on Jon now. Now it was time for her to ‘die’.

_**The afternoon of:**_

Jon’s first thought when he set foot on the shores on Dragonstone was that it seemed quiet. Too quiet. In truth, it seemed deserted. But that was absurd. Absurd, and unthinkable. Dany had said little before she left, but she had explicitly said that she, and her people would be returning to Dragonstone to recuperate.

Sansa has been indignant about the North, and Valemen entering into another fight so soon after the War for the Dawn. She’d insisted, loudly, and unyieldingly at the war council that their men must have time to rest. Dany had agreed, but she’d made it clear that her armies, her people, would rest at Dragonstone. It was obvious that she had wanted to leave Winterfell, and the North in general as soon as possible. He didn’t blame her. He had told her that they would come to see her for what she was, for the generous, strong, smart, gentle, and just Queen she would be. But he was wrong. They had not. No matter what she’d done for them. All that she’d given, and given up, all that she’d lost, and all that she’d suffered they still sneered at her like an enemy.

Before she left, she’d added, almost as though it were an afterthought, that if the North still intended to keep their word and help in her fight then they could meet her at Dragonstone to make plans when they were ready.

For one horrifying moment Jon thought that he was too late and that Dany and her forces had already begun the war without them, without him. But no. She wouldn’t. Yes, things between them had been beyond strained when last they saw one another, but surely not strained enough that she would believe he would not keep his word to her and that she’d act without him.

He walked the silent beach, up towards Dragonstone castle, lost in his own thoughts. Suddenly, as though stepping from behind an invisible wall, Varys was upon him.

What he said next made Jon’s heart stop in his chest. Made his scars ache.

Dany had told him this would happen. She’d told him. She’d told him. He may have been deeper in his cups than normal that night. But he didn’t think there was enough wine or ale in the world to make him forget the heartbreaking look on her face as she’d begged him not to tell his sisters the truth of his parents. Nor was there enough wine or ale in the world to erase the all consuming arousal he’d felt as he’d kissed her, and kissed her, a kiss she returned with equal, if not rival amounts of pure passion before he pushed her away from him. Before he’d rejected her. But now was not the time to think about that. He shook his head to clear it of the dangerous and delicious images and a few of his bottom curls fell loose from his bun. The little ones which Dany loved to twirl around her fingers again and again like there was nothing more diverting to her in this world than his hair, wrapped around her fingers. Like she could, and would, continue the soothing motion forever if he’d have just let her.

No. No. He couldn’t think about this now. Things had gotten out of hand. Just like she had said they would. He needed to see her.

He looked back at Varys. “Take me to the Queen” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading


	3. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got a bit out of hand - so it is longer than I anticipated. But I hope you enjoy it regardless.
> 
> Just a note on the time skipping around - because I believe it might be a bit confusing.
> 
> The evening prior to - is the night before Dany gone-girls herself
> 
> The morning of - is when they find her
> 
> and
> 
> The afternoon of - is when Jon arrives
> 
> A massive thank you to everyone who has commented. I hope you enjoy this new chapter
> 
> Oh, and LdyNyx, breathe :)

**_The evening prior to:_ **

After Missandei had left, after they’d gone over the plan five more times – for it had to be perfect. Dany was alone.

She stood up and took the time to look around her room. At Dragonstone. The dream that had become a nightmare.

She wasn’t happy about having to give up on her goal to reclaim the Iron Throne. But she wasn’t unhappy about it either. In truth she felt a strange indifference towards it right now. She knew that might change.

But nothing. Nothing. Was more important than the safety of her child. And her child was in danger every second she spent on this continent.

Now it was time for the part of her plan that only she could do. The part that she had to do alone.

She gathered her diary and made her way to the secret hiding place in her room. Opened it, and placed her diary inside, right at the back.

There were a few other items in there too. Ones that she was loathe to leave behind for they meant so very, very much to her. But she knew that Jon would be the only one to find these things – if anyone was to find them – if Jon came at all.

And if he did come, if he did look for this place, then she needed him to know that despite everything, he was loved. This was the only way she could think to do it.

She had no idea how long it would take before it would be safe to contact Jon. If he even wanted to hear from her that is. If he did before, maybe after all this he wouldn’t. She didn’t know – but this was the only way out she could think of, and so she was going to take it, for the sake of their child. Hopefully he would understand that.

She estimated that she was four and half, maybe five moons along – depending on when exactly on the boat she had gotten pregnant. She knew Jon would not get to be there for that part. Westeros was going to be in a state of turmoil once she was gone. And Jon would be Jon and would take it upon himself and his honour to try and fix it.

But there was one thing she would not let him fix. And that was why her diary, towards the end, is purposefully vague. He will not know it was Varys who forced her hand in this. She wanted, and needed to deal with Varys herself.

Anyway, she didn’t want to destroy Varys. She wanted to watch Varys destroy himself. And she knew he would. Failure is more painful to a man like him than dying is.

Besides, she didn’t want Jon, or anyone taking revenge in her name. She was Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. If she wanted Varys dead, he would be dead already. Under her orders. She didn’t need anyone else to act for her. She could act for herself.

**_The morning of:_ **

When Tyrion came to he had no idea how much time had passed. It must have been some, but it cannot have been a lot. And it was certainly not enough. At this moment he wished forever to be unconscious so as to not have to face the reality of what was happening around him.

He opened his eyes, and for one, brief, bright and shining hopeful moment he thought that it had all been a mistake, a terrible misunderstanding. For the bed upon which Daenerys had been laying was empty. Still covered in blood, yes. But empty. She is strong. The gods know she is strong to have survived the life she lived. Of course, of course she had survived this too. She had woken up while he had been passed out like a silly maiden, and was probably giggling delightedly at his dramatic antics right this moment.

He heard a noise and raised his head above the floor to source where the sound was coming from. It was a familiar sound. It was the sound of Missandei humming a sweet and soothing tune. It was the tune she hummed every morning as she arranged Daenerys’ hair. But today the tune sounded different. It sounded sad and sorrowful, not sweet and soothing. For everything was as real now as it had been before he had fallen to the ground.

Daenerys had been moved from the bed to the large tub in her room, and Missandei was gently, so gently, washing the blood from her hair. Not braiding it to begin a new day. Washing it of blood because no new day would begin for her. Would a new day begin for any of them now?

Grey Worm, still standing close to Missandei, as though to offer her his strength and support, was speaking quietly, yet rapidly, and authoritatively in Valyrian. He must have been giving orders for the rest of the Unsullied in the room were now nodding and moving out. What was he saying? What was he telling them to do? Perhaps he just wanted them to leave, to give his Queen some privacy? But they were leaving with a sense of purpose, like they had a goal in mind, orders to fulfil. What the fuck was going on?

Suddenly the humming stopped and Missandei sighed. It was an awful sound. A sound that seemed to have come from the very inside of her soul. A painful sound. Then she turned her head from her delicate task and spoke just as rapidly and authoritatively in Dothraki. The Dothraki who had been agitated and angry outside the door instantly moved away with the same purposefulness that the Unsullied had and Missandei tenderly returned to her task.

Tyrion turned away. He simply couldn’t bear to look any longer. He needed to find Varys. Where the fuck was Varys?

**_The afternoon of:_ **

Varys hesitated. There was a look on his face that Jon did not like at all.

“I said” he grunted through gritted teeth, “Take me to the Queen.”

“That might not be the best idea right now Your Grace…” Varys prevaricated.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” He yelled. “Just take me to the Queen.”

“Why don’t rest a bit first? Surely you’re tired, it’s been a long journey for you and…”

“If you won’t take me to her then I will find her my bloody self” he said and ran off before Varys could stop him.

As his feet pounded along the beach Jon couldn’t help but notice the lack of activity on the island.

Where were the Unsullied? The Dothraki? Who were, as he’d said to her upon their first meeting, hard to miss. And where were the dragons? Where was Drogon? Rhaegal? He could hardly remember a time when he was last at Dragonstone that the two brothers had not been making their presence known either by swooping through the skies, or roaring at chattering to each other, or to their mother.

Finally, after what felt like an age, he reached the top of the steps and entered the castle. He was breathing heavily but he paid it no mind. He needed to find Dany. He started through the corridor, intent on making his way to her rooms.

Tyrion appeared in front of him looking ashen faced and only adding to Jon’s ever increasing anxiety.

“Jjjjoooon” Tyrion stuttered.

What the fuck? Tyrion never stuttered. Not even when he’d drunken himself stupid.

“Wwwwhat are you doing here?” his voice was scratched and scared.

“I don’t have time for this, Tyrion. I need to see Dany.” He started, even faster, towards the direction of her room.

“No, Jon. Don’t. Don’t” Tyrion yelled trying to keep up with him on his much shorter legs.

“Jon stop please. You don’t want to. You don’t want to.” He couldn’t seem to finish whatever thought he was trying to communicate, and Jon didn’t have time for this.

Jon didn’t have time to listen to whatever it was Tyrion was trying to say. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it. He could sense it. The castle was quiet. Too quiet. He needed to see Dany. He needed to know what was going on. He needed Dany.

“I’m going to see Dany, Tyrion. It’s important.” And then he was free of him, for he was running at a full sprint now.

He got to Dany’s door only to see that it was wide open, and there were no guards posted outside. There were always guards outside her room. Even when she wasn’t inside it. He knew now that something was very wrong.

He burst inside at full speed then stopped suddenly, not believing what it was he was seeing.

The room was empty. Not just of people, but of all her things, her oils and trinkets and papers. But what caught his eye was the bed. The bed. He would never get the image of that bed out of his mind, he knew.

She’s so little. She’s so little. She’s tiny. How could all that blood be hers? It couldn’t. Could it? No, it couldn’t be hers. It just couldn’t.

He ran towards the bed but his legs gave out from under him and he stumbled and fell, his knees hitting the stone floor loudly; heavily, probably painfully, but he couldn’t feel anything right now except the sting behind his eyes, the tightness of his throat, and the hollow nothingness in his chest.

He doesn’t understand. What the fuck is going on? He needs to understand what is happening.

Tyrion comes running into the room. Tears streaming down his own face as he looks at Jon miserably.

Jon hadn’t even realised he’d been screaming until Tyrion places a gentle hand on his shoulder and tells him to stop. Tells him he’ll explain everything if he would just stop screaming.

He tries to take a deep breath and nods for Tyrion to go ahead. Because he needs answers right fucking now.

And Tyrion does explain. And Jon wishes he hadn’t.

Jon can feel his own rage, but it is currently numbed by his grief. He knows it will consume him later. His rage. And as for his grief, he doesn’t think that will ever leave him. Doesn’t think it will ever lessen.

He is devastated that he had arrived just that little bit too late. If only he’d left earlier, he at least could have… could have seen her. Said goodbye, even if she wouldn’t have heard him. If he’d come to Dragonstone with her maybe this would never have happened at all.

Tyrion tries to coax him out of the room. Says he shouldn’t stay here. Shouldn’t keep looking. Jon can’t stop looking. Won’t stop looking.

He screams at Tyrion to get out. To leave him alone. Sighing, no doubt under the weight of his own grief and guilt, Tyrion leaves.

And he is finally alone. Alone in the room where Dany… His Dany… Alone in the room where his Dany died.

Jon’s head is swirling with denial. He wanted to give in to it. To allow himself to float forever in that place between the before and the now. To never have to accept that this was real. That this had happened. But he knows it is true.

He heard the truth of it in the raw grief in Tyrion’s voice. He could see the truth of it in the room he was sitting in. He could smell the truth of it in the metallic scent of blood. He could taste the truth of it in the bile that was rising in his throat at the reality of it. And in the absence of Dany’s touch he could feel the truth of it. She was gone. She was never coming back. He would never see her again. Never hold her in his arms or hear her laugh. She was gone. She was never coming back. She was dead.

And he had missed his chance to see her one last time. He had missed his chance to… his chance to… he had missed so many chances.

Finally, eventually, Jon lifted his head and took in the rest of the room. All of her things were gone. Not a single thing remained. He would have no token of her. Nothing to carry with him for the rest of his miserable days to remind himself that once he had been loved. Loved so deeply, and completely, and freely by the most incredible woman this world had ever seen.

Unbidden, a memory came to him. A sweet memory. A cherished memory. They were lying on her bed on the ship to White Harbour, naked as their nameday and cuddled closely together.

He had just finished telling her about Winterfell. Specifically how he and Robb had explored every inch they could of it as boys. Always searching for something. Hidden treasure, secrets, dragons. The last one had made her giggle. And he’d told her about how hard he’d looked to find a spot just for him, so he could hide his own treasures. And how, eventually, he had found one.

She looked up at him then, from her place on his chest with her wide, violet eyes, seeming so shy and innocent suddenly. It was times like this that he was reminded of how young she truly was. How young they both were. She bit her lip gently then said, “If I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh at me?”

She sounded so vulnerable, and seemed so cautious, and almost reluctant about what she was about to say that all he could do was agree. He stared back down at her, his gaze as earnest as it had ever been and replied “Of course I won’t laugh, Dany. You can tell me anything.”

She smiled sweetly at that, then lowered her eyes and began tracing mindless patterns on his chest. Her voice was soft, softer than he’d ever heard it when she spoke next. And so quiet that he had to strain to hear it. Which he did, with all his attention, because he did not want to miss a single word she said.

“When I was a child in Essos, after we’d had to flee the house in Braavos, all I wanted was a home. Viserys would tell me grand stories about the Red Keep, about how it was our home. But it was the stories of Dragonstone that fascinated me the most. Perhaps because I knew that was where I was born. Perhaps it was because Viserys wouldn’t talk about it often because it reminded him too much of our mother dying. I don’t know. But it was always Dragonstone, not the Red Keep, that I wanted to see one day.

He listened, riveted. It was so rare that she talked about herself like this. That she talked about Dany, and not Daenerys Stormnborn of the House Targaryen. They had had many conversations of course. But more often than not those focused around battle plans, and supplies, and the future. It was captivating to hear her speak of herself. Just herself. Who she was, not what she was.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I didn’t have many possessions. Anything that was valuable we had to sell so that we could eat, and anything I found that wasn’t valuable, silly things like a pretty stone, or a nicely coloured leaf, Viserys would always throw them away. He said it was because we couldn’t have anything weighing us down in case we had to run again.” She sighed, “Maybe he was right, but I think a large part of it was that he was jealous that, being younger, I could still find joy in such small things when nothing would bring him joy anymore. Nothing short of reclaiming his throne at least.”

“So my favourite daydream when I was a child was that I lived at Dragonstone, and that I could explore it thoroughly, just the way you told me that you and your brother did at Winterfell. And that while I was exploring I would find a secret place to hide my treasures. A place even Viserys couldn’t find so that I could keep them forever. And that one day, years and years into the future, someone would find my treasures and tell my story. That I’d be remembered somehow. That I wouldn’t be forgotten”

His heart wrenched. He wanted to know everything about Dany. But so much of her life had been so full of sadness.

“Why would you think I’d laugh at that, Dany?” He asked. “That story is not even a little bit funny.”

“No, the part you’ll laugh at comes next” she said with a bashful little smile.

“So, when I finally, finally made it to Dragonstone it was like my childhood dream come true. It was a home, and, and, well, and I could explore. So that first night, once everyone had fallen asleep. That’s exactly what I did. I lit a torch and roamed all over the entire castle. I didn’t stop til day was breaking.”

He smiled at her story. It was sweet. And so very Dany.

“You don’t think that’s silly do you? A woman grown running off in the night like a child to go exploring?”

He shook his head emphatically. “No, Dany. I don’t think it’s silly at all. I’m so pleased you got to live your childhood dream.”

She smiled brightly at him then, and he could see the gratitude in her eyes, unnecessary though it was.

“So, did you find it?” He asked.

“Find what?”

“Your secret hiding place to fill with your treasures of course.”

She bounced a little, jolting him a bit, and he could feel her excitement.

“Yes. I did. And you wouldn’t believe it but it was in my own room the whole time. It must have been fashioned by one of my ancestors. I wish I knew which one. Behind the red chair that…”

“Dany,” he interrupted, “You don’t have to tell me. It’s your secret place remember?”

She pouted up at him cutely, “But I want to tell you. I never want to keep anything from you. I trust you Jon.”

His heart soared at her words.

“So may I tell you now please?” she said in a teasing tone.

He nodded sagely in response and she giggled.

“So, behind the red chair that is perfect for reading in there is a stone in the wall. At first glance it looks just like every other stone, but if you look closer you can see someone has carved a little drawing of a hatched dragon egg on it. You can pry the stone open with a knife. It comes right out. And behind that is a secret compartment fit for all the treasures a girl could ever want to keep.”

“Well,” he replied, “You best start filling it up for those future historians who are going to one day be traipsing all over Dragonstone looking for material for their books on Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name”

“Books?” she exclaimed incredulously. “Don’t be silly Jon. That was just a childish fantasy. I know no one is going to be writing books about me.”

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Dany, you are going to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Of course scholars are going to write books and histories of your life and your reign.”

She shook her head like this most insane of ideas, and not the very definite possibility he knew it to be.

“Maybe I’ll just write it myself” she laughed, and he smiled at the sound. “After all, I wouldn’t want them getting any of the details wrong. I can just imagine some self-important Westerosi scholar, hundreds of years from now, recording me down in the annals of history as Myhsa of the Grand Pasture Ocean. The Incombustible. Khaleesi the Shackle Smasher” She announced each absurd butchering of her own accomplishments with more and more gusto, flailing her arms dramatically and raising and deepening her voice to the tenor of, what he assumed was supposed to be, this fictional future Westerosi scholar.

She was ridiculous, endearing, delightful. Gods he loved her. And Gods he could not believe how lucky he was to get to see her like this. Unguarded and open. Playful and silly How many had had that privilege? That honour? He would bet he could count the number on one hand. Dany had been through too much to trust freely. How fortunate he was that she trusted him with herself like this. But she was not done.

“And imagine,” she was giggling so hard now that it was shaking the bed and she could barely get her words out, “imagine if they assumed that the ‘Mother of Dragons’ meant that I had actually laid three dragon eggs myself!”

Now she was laughing even harder, her smile so wide, her entire face lit up with mirth – she looked so beautiful. And the picture she was painting was so ludicrous, so preposterous, that, despite the fact that there was precious little to laugh about these days, what with an army of the dead coming for them all, he couldn’t help but laugh right along with her.

Her laughter stopped as abruptly as his started, and suddenly she was gazing up at him with a look of total fascination, and child-like wonderment upon her face. He knew why. He was a man who rarely laughed, and he knew this was almost certainly the first time she had heard him laugh.

He was immediately embarrassed and looked down to hide his face behind his loose curls. But then warm, tender fingers lifted his chin and he was looking right back into her affection-filled eyes. She didn’t say a word, just leaned in slowly, as though she was afraid to startle, or perhaps, more accurately, upset him, and kissed him softly on each cheek before leaning back again ever so slightly so that she could look again into his eyes.

Her fingers, as they always seemed to, gently drifted their way to the back of his neck and begun the now familiar, and soothing ministration of winding his curls around and around them.

“You have the most beautiful laugh” she said softly, and he grumbled and tried to shake and lower his head again. She was not having it. She tugged lightly on his curls to keep him facing her, smiling at him to take away any sting there might have been out of the gesture.

“You do” she insisted, just as softly, and so, so sincerely. He didn’t know how to respond to that. He’d never been spoken to like this before, appreciated like this before, loved like this before. It was all so new to him, and it was overwhelming him in the most glorious of ways. If he was to die in the upcoming war, he knew he would die knowing what it felt like to be loved so completely, and so completely for himself. Just himself. For who he was. It was a heady and intoxicating feeling.

“I would do anything to hear that sound every single day for the rest of my life” she went on. Her voice still so sweet and full of devotion.

He wanted to say the right thing. He wanted the right words to say to make her feel the way she made him feel. But he couldn’t find them.

And Dany, darling Dany, must have sensed that he was becoming uncomfortable, so she pulled back from him and announced grandly with a broad smile on her face “I would.” She declared.

“I would do anything. Even if I have to kill every single ice zombie by myself armed with nothing but a dinner fork. And then, if that’s not enough, I will simply have to give up on my life-long goal of regaining the Iron Throne in order to become a full-time fool for the King in the North”.

“Ex-King in the North” he reminded her, not unkindly, for he was smiling too. Smiling at her antics. Smiling at the things she would do to make him smile.

She looked at him then, and her face was open, yet very serious.

“Being a King is not having a title” she said meaningfully, her eyes felt as though they were seeing right into his soul. “Being a King is in your actions. And you, Jon Snow, are wholly, utterly, and unequivocally, a King.”

He had no idea how to react to that. He was stunned. He was flattered. He was humbled. That was most certainly the kindest, most generous thing anyone had ever said to him.

She muttered something else then. It was mumbled, and quiet, and spoken mostly into her hair, for she’d turned her face from him as she said it. But he could have sworn she’d said “I want you to be _my_ King.” But he couldn’t be sure, and he knew now was not the time to push the matter.

She squirmed anxiously, then rolled away from him a little and sighed sadly. He immediately missed her warmth and her jovial mood.

“Anyway, it doesn’t really matter. They probably won’t bother to write about me at all.” She said, and he couldn’t believe that this phenomenal woman thought she would ever be forgotten by this world. Though by her tone he knew she seemed certain that she would.

“Maybe I’ll be terrible. Or just so mediocre that I’m not worth mentioning. And what man would even bother to take on the task of recording the life and achievements of a woman, even if she was once the Queen?”

She sighed again, and it sounded just as sad. “I suppose they will, at the very least, mention the dragons. How could they not? But probably only in connection to who their next rider will be. Not the woman who raised them from tiny hatchlings and loved them as her own children.”

He physically ached for her in that moment. He wanted her smile back. He wanted her warm laughter. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to feel appreciated.

“You should do it Dany. You should hide your keepsakes and stories” he encouraged her, for there was nothing in this world that could convince him that people would not be utterly enthralled by her. That they would not want to know everything and anything about her for the rest of time. So he decided to tell her so.

“I cannot imagine a single person, be it a hundred years from now, or a thousand, or even a hundred thousand who would not be awed and inspired by the woman you are. Everyone will want to know about you. You’re going to change the world, Dany. Hell, you’ve already changed the world. You’re incredible. I bet there will be a million books written about you. You’ll see”

“Maybe I will do it then,” she replied. Though he could barely hear her because she’d lowered her face to his chest. He realised then, to his pride, and amazement, that she was blushing. Actually blushing. Dany. Blushing.

It beggared belief. Dany was composed. Dany was regal. Dany was powerful. But here she was, blushing like a maiden in his arms, adorably trying to hide that fact, because he had said something kind to her. It warmed his heart that he could make her feel that way. Yet it also hurt his heart too. Perhaps she was not as sure of herself as she made herself out to be.

When was the last time someone had complimented her without an ulterior motive? Could it actually be possible that she was just as insecure about herself and her place in the world as he was?

It was unfathomable. But watching her now, shielding her prettily flushed cheeks, and having heard the resignation and disbelief in her voice before – he knew it to be the truth. And he resolved then and there to help her in whatever way he could to make her feel as confident inside herself, as the self she projected to the outside world was. And not just because she looked so unbearably gorgeous with her cheeks flushed a rosy pink, but because it was the least he could do for her. For she had made him feel like the most special person in the world every single moment since the very first time that they had come together.

“I’ll do it when I return to Dragonstone,” she said. And it sounded very much like a promise.

“But I’ll only put in the most special things. The things that are the most important to me.”

Jon startled from his reverie. Tears were pouring down his cheeks at the memory of Dany alive. So alive, and so full of life. Laughing and joking with him. Trusting him implicitly. And what had he done with that trust?

He cursed himself to all seven hells. He didn’t want to think about that now. He couldn’t. He knew if he did that his heart would physically break in his chest.

So instead he focused on what was important. She’d promised she would hide her things when she returned to Dragonstone. And Dany did not break promises. It was little consolation, but perhaps there would be something there. Something he could take with him so that he might have a piece of her always.

It took him several attempts to stand. His mind and his body were broken with grief. Eventually he gave up and half crawled, half dragged himself to the place in her solar that she had described to him.

With great effort, he pushed aside the plush red reading chair and looked intently at the stones trying to find the one that… there. It was there, the stone with the little carving of a hatched dragon egg. He’d found it.

He took his knife from his belt and jiggled it into the space between the stones, careful not to damage the wall. It was patient work, and he was a man with no patience at this moment. But finally, finally he worked the stone free. He took hold of it and laid it gently on the ground beside him.

Then, taking a deep breath and sending up a prayer to the Gods he did not believe in that there would be something in there for him, he peered in.

He blinked. Once. Twice. On the third blink he held his eyes shut and his breath shuddered in something like relief. There was something in there. There was something left of Dany.

He reached in reverently and took out the first item. His brow furrowed in confusion until he realised what it was. It was a piece of dragonglass. But not just any piece of dragonglass, he realised with a pang in his heart. It was the piece of dragonglass that he had handed to Dany the day he had first taken her to the caves to see the mines back when they were nothing more than reluctant allies, basically strangers to one another. The piece he had handed her to show her what it was, what it looked like, while he tried to explain what it would mean for the war.

And she had kept it. All this time. She had kept it. The first thing he had ever given her. She had kept it.

On closer inspection he realised that she had not just kept it. She must have kept it with her regularly. For while one side of it was still sharp and jagged as freshly mined dragonglass was want to be, the other side was smoother. Smoother as though it had been rubbed smooth over an extended period of time by a small, warm thumb.

He held the tiny piece of draonglass tightly in his fist, and more tears worked their way free from his eyes. This was a piece of Dany. She had carried this with her, touched it often. He would make himself believe that in doing so she had transferred a piece of herself into it. That way he could carry a piece of her with him always.

He slipped the dragonglass carefully, and deeply into his pocket so that he could be sure that it would not fall out, and he reached back into the hiding place in the wall.

The next item he pulled out held no confusion for him. He knew exactly what it was. He had stared at it enough times, and handled it himself many others. But most notable was the last time he had handled it.

It was wrapped in a piece of fabric that he recognised as cut from one of his old tunics. One he had been looking for. He must have left it on the boat, and Dany had retrieved it from there to create this make-shift pouch to hold this item.

It was her three-headed dragon broach. More specifically, her favourite three-headed dragon broach. The one she had worn the entire time at Dragonstone, and then as well at Winterfell until after the Battle for the Dawn.

More tears flowed as he remembered what had happened with it there.

The broach had been broken during the battle, while she was fending for herself the best she could, having never picked up a sword in her life, after being thrown from Drogon. His fierce little warrior Queen.

He had overheard her talking to Missandei about it at the victory feast. She’d held the broach up to her and shown her how it was now in two pieces because one of the dragon heads had broken off from the other two.

“I suppose it’s fitting. It’s fitting that this piece broke off because now I only have two children, instead of three” she had said. And he could tell by the tone of her voice and the empty look on her face that she was doing everything in her power not to break down and cry in front of everyone. Of all those people who should have been lauding her as their protector, their saviour, and salvation really, but were still glaring at her as though she were their worst enemy.

It had broken his heart to hear. But things had already begun to strain between them, and, he had to admit, he was a coward, he did not want the lords of the North to see him comforting her. So like the undeserving craven he was, he had left that task to Missandei.

But he had not forgotten what she had said, nor how it had devastated her. Not the loss of the broach. But what it symbolised. The loss of her child. The loss of Viserion. Viserion who had died because she had come to save him.

When he knew she would be out, he’d snuck into her rooms and retrieved the broach and made his way directly to the forge. He had no blacksmithing skills to speak of. But he knew there was no one he could ask to help him with this. No one in the North would do anything if it was for Dany’s benefit. But more than that. He wanted, needed to do it himself.

He was destroying things for her left and right. But this, this was one thing he could fix.

He’d made a rather poor job of it. Though it was truly the best he could do. The heads weren’t quite as aligned as the once had been. And he’d melted some of the detail off when trying to smelt the broken piece back on. But at least it was whole again. Dany would always be the mother of three dragons. Even if one of them was gone. He’d snuck the broach back into her room that night before she had a chance to notice it was missing.

And she had kept that too. The second, and last thing he had ever given her. He knew the fact that it was wrapped in one of his shirts was no coincidence. Dany had trunks of fine silks she could have wrapped it in if she had so desired. No, he knew that she wrapped it in one of his things because she knew that he was the one who had tried to fix it for her.

He hoped it made her happy that he had tried. It tore him apart that he would never know whether it did or not. But he believed that maybe it did. She had seen fit to place it in here after all. She could have just thrown it away. The effort must have meant something to her.

He re-wrapped the broach in the cloth and placed it just as carefully in his pocket next to the dragonglass and reached in to hiding place one more.

What he pulled out next truly surprised him. It was a child’s wooden practice sword. Why would she…?

No, no – it wasn’t just any child’s practice swords. It was one of his practice swords. It was a very particular practice sword of his.

On the first evening after they had arrived at Winterfell, after fake pleasantries and real threats alike had been bandied about, Dany and he had finally managed to sneak away from the hundreds of sets of disapproving, prying eyes and had some time to themselves.

She’s begged him to show her his childhood room. He’d been embarrassed. Told her it was nothing special, it was a bastard’s room. No place for a Queen.

She’d laughed then, and he’d smiled despite himself – for he could never stop himself from smiling at the sound of her laughter.

“Jon,” she’d said, still smiling at him fondly. “Do you truly believe me too good to see your room? We could go and visit many of my childhood bedrooms. All we need do is take a walk down the streets of any of the Free Cities. I’m sure I’d be able to remember some of the alleyways I slept in at night.”

He would have been ashamed, he always seemed to forget that this larger than life, powerful woman had once been a frightened and homeless child. But she was still smiling at him, refusing to let him feel his shame – she did that a lot, mitigated his bad feelings with nothing more than her smile.

“Besides,” she’d continued “I’m not the Queen to you. To you I’m Dany. Your Dany. And your Dany wants to know every part of you. Especially where cute, little broody Jon Snow grew up.”

And he couldn’t refuse a request like that. So he’d taken her to his room, which was almost entirely unchanged from when he’d last seen it. She hadn't drawn away from him when confronted with the reality of the difference between their stations in life, nor had she looked at him with pity.

Instead she’d walked around intrigued at every little thing. Asking him a million questions, and hanging off every word of his answers as though they were the answers to life itself.

He’d been emboldened by that. By how much she cared. By how much she wanted to know him. And so he’d shown her his own secret hiding place beneath a loose floorboard under his bed.

She’d cooed over every item that his younger self had kept, and begged for more detail, more of the story of every single one.

Then he’d shown her this. The sword he was now holding in his hand. He’d had many practice swords as a child. But this one he had stolen away and kept. On it he had crudely carved, in his childish ten year old scrawl ‘Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell’.

Her eyes had filled with tears when she’d seen that. She had taken his face gently between her two hands and told him firmly “You are so much more than your name Jon. Being the Lord of Winterfell wouldn’t have made you a better man than you are today, because it simply is not possible for you to be a better man than you already are. You are the best man I have ever known.” His eyes had filled with tears then.

He looked down at the sword in his hands now – he couldn’t be mad at her for stealing it away from Winterfell even if he tried. Perhaps she had wanted something of him to keep with her, the way he so very much did now.

Just under his childish carving of his false name she had written, in her impeccably neat writing ‘Jon Snow, King in the North’.

He was sobbing now. He knew he was. He didn’t know when she had written this. But it had to have been after she had already left Winterfell. After things had gone so terribly wrong between them. After he’d treated her, and allowed her to be treated so very poorly. Yet still she thought the world of him. Still she thought him a good man. A King in his actions. He did not deserve her praise. Not after everything he had done and not done. But she had given it to him anyway.

_“But I’ll only put in the most special things. The things that are the most important to me.”_

That’s what she’d said she would put in here. Only the things that were the most important to her. And they all had to do with him. They were all tokens of the love she bore him. He was that important to her. Right up until the very end. And the last time he had seen her he had been so cold and formal. Now he would never have a chance to tell her what she meant to him. How she had changed his life and his heart irrevocably. How she made everything better, made everything seem like it was going to be okay simply with a touch of her hand, or one of her sweet smiles.

He bowed his head and began to weep in earnest. He was lost. He was lost without her. She had been his reason. He knew that now. Why did it take this happening for him to finally admit that? Why couldn’t he have realised sooner and showered her with the love she deserved?

He had no idea how much time he spent there lamenting every lost moment and opportunity. The room was darkening slowly so he supposed it must have been a while. He knew he should get up, and he tried to, he did. But when he raised his head something caught his eye. There was something else in her hiding place. One more thing.

He reached in and pulled it out. It was a book. A beautiful book. Gently he opened it to the first page. He recognised her writing immediately: ‘My name is Daenerys Stormborn, and this, I suppose, is my story. I don’t remember…

He slammed the book closed. It felt like an invasion to keep reading. It was hers. It was her story in her words. His Dany telling her story.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So once again, this got a little long... and a smidge intense. Not too intense though. 
> 
> Oh, and for the timeline, we now also have The evening of - which is the evening Jon arrives at Dragonstone. Because, you know, he spent the whole afternoon in her room. So, it's the evening now.
> 
> I hope you enjoy anyway.
> 
> Once again, thank you SO much to everyone who leaves their lovely comments

_**The morning of (Daenerys):** _

Missandei clasped her hand tightly between both of her own and promised her that everything would go according to the plan. That she would make sure of it personally. That every single Unsullied and Dothraki was poised and ready for when the time came to play out their various roles with precision.

Dany thanked her warmly, her gratitude overwhelming her that she had these people, her people, who were so loyal to her that they would do even this for her. To help her. To protect her.

She was already lying in bed, ready and waiting to ‘die’. Missandei handed her the mug filled with the Dothraki drink. And she swallowed down the whole thing.

It was surprisingly sweet. Who knew death could taste so sweet? Or maybe it was the revenge that tasted sweet. Maybe it was the knowledge that Varys would get exactly what he wanted, and that that would be his downfall was what tasted so sweet.

Missandei then took the mug from her and helped Dany lay down fully. The drink worked fast. She could feel its effects almost immediately.

She was surprised to find that she was conscious. She could not move. She could feel, somehow, that her body appeared as still as death. But she wasn’t unconscious or even asleep. She could hear everything going on around her. She felt Missandei kiss her softly on the forehead and whisper “Kesan ūndegon ao aderī, isse aōha arlie ābrar, Daenērys” before leaving the room to dispose of the mug – they could leave no trace or clue behind that might unravel or reveal the plan.

The Dothraki women had said that her being conscious was a possibility. That because she wasn’t gravely injured, which is what the drink was designed to aid with, she might be fully aware of her surroundings. They had also assured her, repeatedly, for she had asked them repeatedly, that it would bring no harm whatsoever to the babe. Now she just had to wait and allow her people to carry out her instructions. She had complete faith in them.

It was a strange and terrifying feeling being locked inside her own body like this. Unable to move, or see, or speak, but with an active mind. It gave her nothing to do but think. She had a full hour alone ahead of her before Missandei would come in to discover her body. That was a lot of time to think.

She did not want that time to think. She did not want it at all. Her thoughts were so conflicted. Was she doing the right thing? What other option did she have? Did she not look hard enough for an alternative course of action? What would happen to Westeros? While she wanted her revenge on the spider, she did not want it to be at the expense of innocents suffering. And what about Jon? What would happen to Jon? Always, always her thoughts returned to Jon.

A small, girlish part of her, the part that loved to read tales of grand romance, had hoped that he would show up before she put this plan into action so that she could tell him the plan. So that he would know that she would never willing leave him, but that she had to do so to protect their babe. So that he would know that she loved him. So that he wouldn’t be sad. Wouldn’t feel abandoned. So that he’d know she would come back for him as soon as it was safe.

Or even further, so that instead of going through with the plan at all they could simply run away together. Go to Essos with her people, have their child, love their child, watch it grow and teach it things, become a family, be together.

But she knows, she knows that she could not do either of those things. Why? Because she cannot trust him. Not because he himself is untrustworthy, he is one of the most trustworthy people she knows. But because he trusts the wrong people. He has already proven that by trusting the wrong people with another critical piece of information. The piece of information that made this entire fiasco necessary in the first place.

His blind love, and desire for acceptance from his family means that he does not, perhaps cannot, see them for the people they have become. She understands this, she does. She had made excuses and rationalisations for Viserys’ behaviour for years. Maybe one day Jon will open his eyes to the reality of what his siblings are now. She desperately hopes, for his sake, that it doesn’t take something like what Viserys did to her for him to see the truth of his siblings.

Despite the fact that she understands it does not stop her from being miserable, and furious on his behalf, that Jon still, after all these years, and all that he has accomplished, feels like he _still_ needs to prove himself worthy to his family. That he feels like he must constantly seek their approval and acceptance. She hates that he feels less than them – that the way he was raised made him believe he was inferior so strongly that he still acts in accordance with it to this day. Especially when he is a better person than any of his family could ever, ever hope to be.

And she knows he would want to share the news of his child with his family, just as he had wanted to share the news of his parentage. And she knew now that no amount of begging on her part would be enough to stop him. And then history would repeat itself. His sister would tell Tyrion, who would tell Varys, and then another Targaryen babe would be hunted on the streets of Essos from the moment it was born.

Yes, they could kill the spider who was seeking to kill her, and then perhaps they could stay. But news of his parentage would spread now. She knew it would. She knew the spider was already trying to spread it. So even if they killed this particular spider, another one would appear from somewhere with the same nefarious agenda. Probably Sansa, she thought spitefully. So staying was not an option. She and the babe would always be in danger if she stayed in Westeros. She and the babe would always be in danger if the Starks found out about the babe.

Besides, these foolish fantasies of him being happy that she was not really dead, or him running away with her were all predicated on the assumption that he still wanted her. That he loved her. And that was something that she was entirely uncertain about. The last time they had seen one another he could barely stand to look at her. He had spoken coldly, and formally. There had not been a single trace of the man she loved that day. And she had not heard a word from him since. Perhaps he truly did no longer love her?

She is also, and she acknowledges that it may be irrational, angry at Jon. If he had just listened to her when she had begged, literally _begged_ him not to tell his family, then she would not have been put in this situation in the first place. With Varys trying to kill her, and her having to go to such extreme lengths to keep herself and their child alive.

She knows Jon isn’t stupid. He must have understood what the truth of his parentage getting out would mean for her. He’d told her that he had been infatuated with stories of the Targaryens of old as a child, that those were his favourite lessons in the very formal, proper, and thorough education he’d received as the son of a Lord, that he’d read many books about them, and even pretended to be one. So he certainly must know what happened when there was a rival claimant to the throne – one of them always died.

Did he want that? Is that why he did it? Why he told? Did he actually want her dead so that he could take the throne?

No, she didn’t believe that. That was not Jon. He had been honoured to be chosen, but he had still been a reluctant King in the North. He would not want to be King of all Seven Kingdoms. And he had told her he didn’t want it. Repeatedly in fact.

Jon would not even lie to Cersei when their very survival depended upon it. He surely would not have lied to her about this.

But still, it is an issue. Even though she’d never harm him or allow any of her people to harm him, and even though she knew he’d never harm her, _his_ people might. They’d already more than thoroughly proven just how much they despised her. And even if he could hold them off for a while, which she is sure he would try to do, factions would form, hands would be forced. And one, or both of them would die. She could not allow that to happen. 

But still, still, she is angry. Or maybe she is just distraught? Not just because he had told his sisters despite the fact that she’d begged him not to, despite him surely being aware of the consequences should one of them repeat the information – which, of course, they did – but because he had begun distancing himself from her as soon as they had arrived at Winterfell.

And that, that had hurt her in a way that she hadn’t known she could be hurt.

He was ashamed of her. It was that simple. He did not want the people of the North to know what they were to one another.

She remembers, on her third or fourth day at Winterfell, having grown tired of either being glared at by suspicious Northerners, or cooped up in her room to avoid being glared at by suspicious Northerners, she had taken her guard and gone outside to a secluded place behind the keep to marvel at the snow.

She’d never seen it before she’d ventured this far North, and she had wanted to see what all the fuss was about after listening to Jon talk so animatedly about how much fun he had had in the snow as a child.

He guards were a reasonably discreet distance away, though they were circled around her tightly. She had just picked up a handful of the cold white powder and was sprinkling it through her fingers, watching delightedly as it danced its way back to the ground when she heard his voice behind her.

“The snow suits you.”

She smiled widely at him. She hadn’t seen him properly in days, much less had the chance to be alone with him. She may as well take full advantage of the opportunity now.

“Oh, I _know_ Snow suits me.” She replied looking at him meaningfully.

He smiled a little. Just a little. His smile had grown smaller and smaller since they had arrived at Winterfell. She wanted his real smile back. She wanted to hear him laugh again. She wanted to feel like she was special to him again. Not just necessary to the North because of the war as though she were a thing and not a woman, but special _to him_.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked. And she could tell his curiosity was genuine. That he did really want to know what she was keeping herself occupied with.

“I wanted to see the snow” she said simply, smiling at him again. Willing him to smile back.

“You told me so many stories of how fun it was I wanted to see if you were right.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Was I telling the truth? Are you having fun?” She could hear the earnest desperation behind his question. He wanted her to be having fun. That thought warmed her inside right down to her bones.

“It’s too soon to tell. I just got here. Besides,” she pouted at him “I don’t have any playmates. In all the stories you told of how fun the snow was, you always had playmates.” It was an invitation if ever there was one. Oh what she wouldn’t give for him to give her just five minutes to have some fun with him.

“Well,” he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly and she longed to wind her fingers through his little curls. It had only been a few days, but that, to her, was far far too long to go without having done that.

“Remember the snow ball fights I told you about?”

She nodded raptly, excitedly. He was going to play with her. She knew that sounded childish, but she missed being playful with him.

He walked closer towards her so they were standing face to face, the closest they’d been since shortly after they had arrived.

“I could teach you how to make a snow ball” he suggested, and made to bend down to grab a handful of snow, but she had other ideas.

She clasped his arm gently and pulled him back up straight. “Well,” she said smirking at him, her voice laden with innuendo, “you do know how I adore playing with _snow balls_.” She turned her gaze purposefully down towards his breeches.

“Dany!” he exclaimed and he sounded scandalised, his cheeks were growing hot and red beneath his beard.

She laughed, and he smiled. Finally, finally one of his real smiles.

Gods, Westerosi were prudish. Or was it just Jon? She didn’t care to find out. Jon was the only man she wanted to be inappropriate with.

All of a sudden, almost like magic, almost like his beautiful smile had bought it on, it started snowing. She’d seen the snow yes, but she’d never seen it fall before. She’d only seen it on the ground.

She let out a little squeal of delight and spun around in it, with her arms spread wide, and her head flung back, mouth open to try and catch a snowflake on her tongue like Jon had told her he used to do.

“Come on Dany,” he said, and she looked at him to see that he was gazing at her with such a soft fondness in his eyes.

“We better get you inside before you are completely covered in snow.”

She raised an eyebrow suggestively, “But Jon,” she said, and her tone was low and breathy “you know I absolutely _love_ to be completely covered in Snow” she winked at him.

Apparently that did it. Thank that Gods, she didn’t know how many more terrible snow related quips she could make before she started loathing herself. He grabbed her by both her arms and pulled her to him pressing her body tightly against his own, bringing his mouth down to hers and kissing her deeply.

She moaned into the kiss. She had missed this entirely too much.

His answering groan had her squirming against him. She wanted him so badly. She needed him.

Too soon they were interrupted by Northern accented voices sounding very close by. Abruptly Jon ripped his mouth away from hers and pushed her away from him.

She looked up at him, stung. But his face had changed completely he looked distant, angry.

“I’ve told you several times now, I will not stand for the Dothraki camps being set up this close to the Keep. The people of the North don’t trust them, and the people of the North are my priority.”

She felt as though she’d been slapped. She’d have rather he slapped her than said _that_.

The two Northern Lords that had been passing glared at her and bowed their heads in greeting, approval, and respect at Jon before moving away.

She was livid, fuming, she felt as though her blood was made of fire. She turned to Jon, and she was sure he could see the rage in her eyes for he looked shamefaced and a little frightened.

“What. The fuck. Was that?” she asked him slowly, her voice clipped and cold, enunciating each syllable clearly.

He was twisting around. At first she thought it was out of shame, or that he was trying to come up with something to say. But then she realised that he was surveying the area, making sure that there were no other Northerners were within hearing or viewing range.

Her anger was bubbling over now.

“I said,” and her teeth were gritted so hard she thought they might break, it was all she could do to keep herself from screaming the words at him. “What the fuck was that? Do not make me ask again Jon.”

“Dany… I… They… Dany… You.”

He clearly couldn’t formulate his thoughts, but she could read his meaning loud and clear. He really was ashamed of her. He couldn’t bear the thought of the Northerners knowing they were together. But that was not what was making her angry right now, even though she knew he thought it was.

“Insult _me_ if you must Jon. If you think that will help. If it will make you feel like a man. If it will make you feel accepted by people whose approval you shouldn’t even have to need to seek if they are as honourable, as they claim. If they ‘remember’ as they claim. Considering that you have poured your entire adult life into ensuring their survival in the upcoming war – that seems like something the North should remember, don’t you think? But never, EVER insult, or use my people to prop yourself up in the eyes of the North again.”

“I will not stand for it. They have come to protect _your_ home. To fight and die for you and you dismiss them just so that Lord Who-The-Fuck-Cares-What-His-Name-Is doesn’t grumble about you behind your back? You’re a different man in the North, Jon. Or maybe this is the man you are, and you were a different man on Dragonstone, on the ship, and I fell in love with a farce. Or maybe you’re both men and you don’t know how to reconcile the two. You don’t know how you can be both at once. Or people won’t let you be both at once. And if that’s the case then I’m sorry, I really am but...”

“Dany, come on, please. You know I didn’t mean it. You know how much I appreciate the Dothraki, and what they are doing for the North. You know I respect them.”

“No, Jon. I don’t know that you respect them. Not anymore. Not after that display. But _I_ do respect them. I’m going to see them now. I’ll be sure to tell them to move their camp further away from your precious castle. Wouldn’t want to offend the delicate dispositions of the Northerners.”

“No, Dany. No, they don’t have to. That was just the first thing that came to my mind to say. I didn’t mean it Dany, please. Of course they don’t have to move further out.”

“If that was the first thing that came to your mind Jon, then it must have already been on your mind. How far would you like them to move back _Lord Snow_?” she asked derisively with a mocking bow.

“Five leagues? Ten? I’ve half a mind to tell them to move back all the way to Dragonstone.”

“We came here to help you save your home. I know your people don’t want me here. Don’t want my people here, and that is making things uncomfortable for you. So like I said, do what you must, call me names, insult me to the lords, turn your back on me in public, hell, continue spreading your lies about me like you did the day we arrived…”

“What?” he interrupted her, and he looked incredulous. “When have I ever spread lies about you? I wouldn’t do that Dany, you know I’m true to my word.”

She looked him square in the eyes, and quoted in the most deadpan voice possible “I had a choice, keep my crown or protect the North. I chose the North.”

“That was utter bullshit if ever I heard it. I promised you that we would defeat The Night King and his Army, that we would do it together _before_ you bent the knee. I never asked you to do it again. In fact, when you first tried to do so I even offered you an out. I asked you about the people who had sworn allegiance to you. Yet you led every single person in the North to believe that you had selflessly and valiantly surrendered your crown because it was the only option. Making them think me even more of an unfeeling, uncaring, selfish bitch who cares more for power than she does for people than they already did.”

He, at the very least, has the decency to look ashamed at that.

“What was it you said? About when it was that words stop meaning anything? When should I start to think that your words to me don’t mean anything?”

“Dany, I…”

“It doesn’t matter. Like I said. Lie about me if you feel like you have to in order to keep their respect. But just know that when you do, it makes them resent me even more. But I can handle that. People have been looking at me this way, and speaking of me this way almost my entire life. I am used to it, and I can take it. But I will not tolerate it for my people. They deserve better than that.”

She’d stormed off then. But she’d come to him later and apologized. Actually apologized to him. Gods he made her weak. But she wanted him to understand. She needed him to. And also, she loved him. She hated the thought that she might have hurt him with her words. So she apologized to him.

She had to wait until everyone was asleep. After all, Jon didn’t want to be seen with her like that. And despite how much that hurt her, she wanted to respect his wishes.

She knocked quietly on his door and waited for him to open it and bid her to enter.

He looked exhausted. As though he’d lived a thousand days within this one. Perhaps what had happened between them was weighing as much on him as it was on her.

She walked in and stood further away from him than she ever had when they had been alone together, for she wasn’t sure how he was feeling about her right now. Just as she wasn’t sure how she was feeling about him.

She didn’t know how to begin, so she just started talking, hoping the words would come to her to set this right. She couldn’t look him in the eye. She stared at the floor instead.

“I’m sorry Jon. Not about what I said. But how I said it. I should not have spoken to you like that. Will you allow me to explain?” She looked up at him imploringly then. She really did want to explain. She needed to explain why she had reacted the way she had.

“No, Dany. I’m sorry.” His voice was rough and gravelly. He cleared his throat. “I was a fucking arse. You were right. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

“No, you shouldn’t have. But I am still sorry, and I’d still like to explain. May I?”

He looked confused, and a little wary, but he nodded his assent.

“I understand that you are in an untenable situation. You need to placate the lords and maintain their respect for you and your own authority. You need them to be willing to listen to you, and I know the stakes are high - the peoples very survival relies on them trusting you. And I know how important their respect is to you. How little respect they afforded you before. How much you had to go through to earn it.”

He was looking at her strangely. She couldn’t pinpoint what his look meant. It wasn’t a bad look, it was almost like shock and gratitude. Why would he be shocked about her saying that? He’d told her about his past, of course she understood. And he certainly did not have to be grateful to her for trying to see things from his side. Gods, she could burn the entire North to the ground just for what they’d done to Jon’s own opinion of himself. Of how many contingencies they placed upon his worthiness.

But she could not get caught up in that now, she had come here to explain.

“I know they hate me.”

He moved to interrupt her.

“No, don’t go on again with that ‘they don’t know you’ nonsense. They don’t want to know me. They’ll never try to know me. But frankly, Jon, I don’t know them either. Yet still I came here, knowing how much I was hated in the North, knowing how dangerous it could be for me personally. It’s as Jorah said, all it would take is one angry man with a cross-bow and I would be gone.”

He sucked in a breath at that, paling visibly.

“All because of the deeds of a man who was dead before I was even born. All because I am his daughter. All because of my name.”

“But I still came. If that is not enough to convince them that I am only here to help, then them knowing me for a thousand years wouldn’t convince them of that either. They don’t trust me. Fine. But again, I don’t trust them either.”

“I didn’t sleep at all the first night here because I was so afraid. Afraid in a way I hadn’t been since I was a child always running from assassination attempts. I’ve doubled my guard, but I’m still afraid. Afraid of that angry man with a cross-bow, afraid of a whole group of angry men with worse intentions than just killing me. I turn every corner with my heart in my throat expecting to see a cloak, a dagger, and then nothing ever again. And it doesn’t help that everyone glares at me with such hatred that it is impossible to tell the difference between those who simply wish me murdered, and those who would be willing to do the murdering themselves. So I have to be wary of everyone.”

“Yet still, I came. I came knowing I couldn’t trust the people I would be surrounded by. Knowing that many of them would love nothing more than to see my silver, Targaryen hair waving like a banner from my severed head on a pike above the ramparts of the castle.”

“Dany!” Jon exclaimed and he looked sick, and shocked, and appalled by that image.

“What? You think your Northerners are too honourable for such barbarianism? I don’t. I’ve seen what people do to their enemies, Jon. Barbarians, and honourable men alike. They’re all the same when it comes to revenge against their enemies. And make no mistake, your people see me as their enemy.”

“So yes, I know they hate me. And they can treat me like it. I don’t care. We have a war to win, there are more important things to focus on. But my people – I have to draw a line there, Jon. Because they are mine, and I love them. And it is my duty, and my honour to protect them.”

“Your people look to you to see how they should act. You’re their leader, and when they hear you say something like you said today, it only validates and solidifies the hatred and mistrust they are already harbouring. It gives them permission to continue to treat and consider my people as less than them.”

“And I will not have it. The Dothraki won’t be bothered as much – their pride is strong, as it should be. But your people do not distinguish between the Unsullied and the Dothraki. To them they are just a homogenous group of foreign savages.”

“And the Unsullied, the Unsullied… Jon, they were _slaves_.” Her voice cracked and she had to stop and take a very deep breath to calm herself.

“Their whole lives, from the time they were babes they were owned… Do you know why Grey Worm is called Grey Worm?”

Jon shakes his head in the negative.

“Every day of their lives an Unsullied picks a name out of a draw. Names to remind them that they are nothing. Names like Grey Worm, Red Flea, Blue Rat. That is their name for the day. Then the next day they pick a new name. When I freed the Unsullied and was told this story I encouraged them to pick new names for themselves. Names that would give them pride. Grey Worm wanted to be called Grey Worm, because that is the name he drew the day he was freed. He says it is a lucky name. A name that does give him pride because it was the name he had the day he became a free man.”

A few tears made their way down her cheeks but she brushed them aside impatiently, and side-stepped Jon when he reached out to comfort her. She wasn’t done making her point.

“They spent their entire lives reinforced and conditioned into believing that they were less than, that they were nothing, that they were vermin. But now, now they are free men – and they take great pride in that fact. They know their worth now…. But it took them a long time for their conditioned, tortured minds to believe in themselves. I will not have some minor Northern lord, who thinks its okay, and right to say so – because their King says such things himself – say anything that will, even for a second, make any one of the Unsullied feel like they are less again. They have worked too hard, and I will not allow your people to bring them down.”

Jon looks distraught. Devastated. She hates to make him feel this way but he has to understand. He has to. She will not have her people belittled by these small men with small minds. And Jon is the only one who can stop them.

“Dany, I, I had no idea… I… I don’t know what to say. Sorry doesn’t seem anywhere near good enough.”

“Then don’t say you’re sorry. Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” he says solemnly. And she believes him. “I won’t.”

“Thank you.”

There’s an awkward silence that follows. Both of them trying their best to process the day and the seemingly unnavigable situation they have found themselves in in the North.

“Well,” she says finally, “that’s, well, that’s all I really came here to say. I just needed you to understand why I reacted the way I did. My people are important to me Jon, just as yours are to you.”

He nods slowly. She knows he’s listening, but she can tell his mind is elsewhere.

“Okay, well, I’ll go. Good night, Jon.”

She turns to leave but is pulled back around by Jon’s hand on her arm. His face looks pained, worried, sad.

She cocks her head to the side in question waiting patiently for him to say what it is he needs to say.

“Dany did you, did you mean what you said about not feeling safe here?” His voice physically hurts her. She can hear the hope that she didn’t mean it, she can hear the fear that she did. She doesn’t want to hurt him, but she also cannot lie to him.

She nods her head slowly, a barely perceptible “Yes” making its way past her lips.

Jon sighs, and it is so long and deep. She wishes he wouldn’t take this personally, but she knows he will.

He is holding her with his hands by her upper arms, and he rocks her slightly one shoulder forwards the other back, over and over again, a few time, almost like a nervous twitch, almost like a dance. Finally he resolves himself to speak.

“You _are_ safe here Dany, you have two dragons - your children would never let any harm come to you”

He says it like he is trying to convince himself more than he is her.

“Drogon and Rhaegal need to eat Jon. They have to hunt. They cannot be here all the time. And they cannot protect me inside the castle.”

“You have your guards.” He tries again, desperately.

“I do yes, and I trust them with my life. But as wonderful and prepared as they are there is nothing they could do against a well aimed arrow, or a well planned ambush that outnumbered them.”

He looks fraught now. She wants nothing more than to soothe him, her fingers twitch with wanting to wind into his curls and massage all his worries away. Even though they are her worries as well.

He looks at her, resolute.

“You have me, Dany. I would never allow anyone to hurt you. You have me to protect you.”

Now she sighs. She did not want to have this conversation. Not now, not ever. But again, she cannot lie to him.

“Do I, Jon? Do I? Because I have barely seen you since we arrived here, and almost every time I do we are surrounded by northerners and you act as though tolerating me is a loathsome and unfortunate necessity. You don’t act as though I’m someone you would ever consider protecting, let alone that you give a damn about my safety.”

He bows his head and she can tell he is struggling with himself.

“I’m sorry Dany. I am. I’m sorry I’ve made you feel this way. And I’m so, so sorry that you have been living in fear in my own home. I’ll do something. I’ll do better. I promise. I will. I don’t want you to be worried. I want you to love it here as much as I do.”

She scoffs quietly to herself. 

“I think we’re well past that point, Jon. How could I love a place where everyone hates me? Where my people are degraded? Where I’m terrified for my own life? And things won’t get better with time - to the North I will always be a foreigner. A foreign whore, a foreign invader, the Mad King’s daughter.”

She chuckled bitterly.

“I wish they would at least make up their minds and be consistent in their insults. I’m either a foreigner or the Westeros born daughter of a past King of Westeros. Logically, I cannot be both.” 

“I think they are more referring to where you were rais...”

“I know what they are referring to.“ she cut him off. “Are you defending them? What they are saying? Do you think that too?”

He looks dismayed.

“No, no Dany you know I don’t. You know that. Please tell me you know that.”

She sighed. “I do. I do know that Jon. But only because I already know you. But based on the past few days, If I had only met you for the first time upon my arrival at Winterfell, I would believe that you despised me as much as everyone else. And, and I suppose it’s just hard to reconcile the way you are acting now with the Jon Snow I know and love. I miss the you I know. But I promise you I do understand how difficult the situation you are in is.”

He has that odd, shocked look on his face again.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Dany. And I’m so, so sorry for pushing you away earlier. I’m not ashamed of you, Dany. I promise I’m not. You’re the single best thing that has ever happened to me. It’s just the North…”

“I know, Jon” she sighs resignedly “I know. Let’s just forget about it, okay. I love you. That’s all that matters. I promise”

“And I promise you that I will do better. Be better, Dany. I’ll be here for you more. I promise.”

Dany yanks herself away from the painful memory.

What a fucking joke, she thinks bitterly. Things had only gotten worse from there.

She heard the door open and Missandei, at least, she hopes and assumes it is Missandei, walks in.

“It’s me Daenerys” she says softly. “Let’s get started.”

Missandei pours the blood liberally as they had planned. It’s very uncomfortable feeling it trickle all over herself, unable to wipe or brush at it. But she knows it is necessary.

Once it is done Missandei leaves again. She knows she is going to thoroughly cleanse and dispose of the jars of blood. Again, they can leave no trace of the plan.

Missandei comes back into the room, gives her a firm, comforting squeeze on her shoulder, then she screams with all her might.

As planned her guards come running in. And then the chaos ensues.

She will have to remember, not that she is likely to forget this day as long as she lives, which thanks to this day will be a lot longer than some people would like, to commend her people, and Missandei in particular for their fantastic performances.

Perhaps they should stop being an army and become group of travelling mummers?

Missandei is sobbing, oh so believably by her bedside and clutching her hand.

At one point she leans down to her and whispers in Valyrian “Lord Tyrion just fainted.”

She can hear how amused Missandei is. But she herself is relieved. Relieved that Tyrion is shocked. That he wasn’t in on the spider’s plan. For all his intelligence, Tyrion is actually a pretty poor liar. His reaction must be genuine. It is nice to know that he cares that she died.

She is moved to the tub and Missandei begins to wash her off. Time is of the essence. The Dothraki drink would only last around six hours. She had taken it at dawn. They had until noon to get away. They have to move quickly. They all know this. She hears Grey Worm then Missandei give the orders to begin the next phase. To pack everything up and ready the ships.

They couldn’t have readied them ahead of time, even if it would have been more convenient. That might have alerted the spider to her plan. But the Unsullied move with efficiency that comes with extraordinary discipline, and the Dothraki are nomads by nature. They are used to packing up and moving out at a moments notice. And they all knew this was coming. They just waiting for the go ahead. And the go ahead had just been given to them.

She would be on her way home soon.

She, and her people, and her babe would be safe.

_**The morning of (Tyrion):** _

Tyrion stumbles out of Daenerys’ room and promptly vomits on the floor. He feels sick and he cannot breathe. But he needs to find Varys. He’s worried Varys might… Well, he’s worried.

He knows he is walking aimlessly, that he should focus, but he can’t. Not after what he just saw.

Finally he finds Varys sitting in the hall breaking his fast as though this is just another ordinary day, and not the day that hope died.

He approaches him warily.

Varys looks up and greets him as he would any morning.

Tyrion is not having it.

He stops in front of him and looks him right in the eye. Poised to notice any kind of micro-expression that might give something, anything away.

“What’s wrong with you?” Varys asks him.

Tyrion realises then that he has probably been staring for a little too long.

“Daenerys is dead.” He says flatly. He’s probably still crying. He doesn’t even know. He still can’t really feel his face.

“Tyrion your japes get less and less amusing when you are sober. Perhaps you should sit with me and take a cup of wine.”

“I’m serious, Varys. I was just there, I just saw. I just saw. How did you not hear the commotion?”

“You’re not joking?” Varys asks. He sounds sincere, troubled.

“I wish that I was. She’s covered in blood. Soaked with it. She must have been bleeding the whole night. It must have been poison.” He eyes Varys again.

“She can’t have been poisoned.” Varys says, and he sounds affronted. “My little birds would have known had someone sent a poisoner to Dragonstone.”

“Unless it was you who did it.” Tyrion says quickly, for he does not want to say it at all. He does not want to think it. But he remembers their conversation the other day. How Varys was doubting Daenerys. How he wanted to put Jon on the throne.

“You think I would kill our Queen?”

“You’ve tried to before.” Tyrion reminds him.

“Yes, but that was not my idea. I was simply following orders. And she was not my Queen then.”

“You didn’t want her to be your Queen the other day either.” Tyrion accuses. “You wanted to put Jon on the throne.”

“I wanted, and still want what is best for the realm. At the time of our conversation, which was purely hypothetical, and between friends, I was worried about Daenerys state of mind. Admit it, she has not been herself since we went North, even less so since we returned.”

“She was at war. She lost her oldest friend.”

“She’s lost much more than that in her life, but she always seemed to bounce back quickly from what I’ve heard.”

“You don’t seem particularly upset that she’s dead.”

“I’ve served many Kings, and Queens. They’ve all died. It sounds awful, I know, but perhaps I’m more accustomed to the shock than most. But of course I am sad. She was an incredible woman.”

“Yes,” Tyrion sobbed. “Yes she was.”

“I sympathise with you old friend, I really do. But I need you to try and keep it together, because now there is something we must do.”

“What in the hells are you talking about?”

“Your sister is still a problem. The realm still needs a good leader. Jon Snow must be that leader now. There is no other option, even if it’s not the one we’d prefer.”

“Not the one I’d prefer,” Tyrion corrects. “You seemed to have a preference in Jon just the other day.”

Tyrion doesn’t know what to think. Varys has never been emotional. And he does sound sincere. And he wouldn’t, he wouldn’t _kill_ Daenerys. He’d, he’d, he’d think of something else. He’s a clever man. And he doesn’t want to think his oldest friend capable of killing his beloved Queen.

“You truly think I did this?”

“No, I, no, I, I don’t know what to think. _You_ have to admit this does look like your work, Varys. Especially in light of what you were saying about Jon.”

“Might I remind you that it was I who encouraged you to seek Daenerys out in the first place. Because I knew what an extraordinary woman she was. Even if I didn’t think she was best for the realm, and I never said that as a certainty, I was merely floating an idea past you, I would never have killed her. She might, or might not have necessarily been what is best for this realm, but she is, was, a remarkable woman. If I did decide that Jon would be better suited to Westeros, I would have convinced Daenerys that she would be better suited to Essos. Where she could continue her fight against the slavers. Where she could conquer more cities, where she could eventually unite that continent until both Essos, and Westeros were united under different Targaryen rulers. She would have quite liked that I believe. She is spectacular at conquering. I would have given them a continent each. Her and Jon both.”

Tyrion furrows his brow. It all sounds so plausible. And Daenerys truly might have liked that idea. Her ruling in the east. Her nephew ruling in the West. A grander Targaryen rule than there had ever been in history. She did like to make history.

“Focus, Tyrion. Rememeber, we have a problem in your sister, and the Golden Company. We have the claimant. Now we just need to put him on the throne. To do that, we need an army.”

“Jon doesn’t have an army”

“No, but Daenerys does. Did. We need to convince them to stay and fight to put Jon on the throne.”

“I don’t know if…”

“We must. It is our best hope. Get up and pull yourself together. Let’s go.”

They step outside the hall and see that the corridors are empty. Indeed, the entire castle seems devoid of noise and life.

Because Daenerys was the life of this place, Tyrion thinks to himself sadly.

But it’s not just that. As they continue to search for Grey Worm, who they had decided would be the best to approach, they find every room empty. People gone. Clothing gone. Everything gone. How had everything been packed up so quickly? Tyrion knows the Unsullied are efficient, but he had clearly been underestimating them.

Varys looks concerned and suggests they make their way down to the beach.

When they make it down they see ships being loaded and people, all the people, getting on board.

But it’s the sight of Daenerys, dressed in a Targaryen red and black silk gown, being carried carefully and gently in Qhono’s arms that Tyrion cannot take his eyes away from.

She looks like a goddess.

But goddesses don’t die.

His chest is feeling tight, and his fingers numb again. But he tries to focus as he keeps pace with Varys who seems determined.

“Grey Worm, Missandei” Varys calls out.

“Don’t bother Missandei, Varys. She’s devastated. She just lost her best friend.”

“I know, and I am sorry for her. But we need her to translate for us. There is no other way.”

Grey Worm and Missandei look up to acknowledge them, but do not approach, so they continue to walk towards them, where they appear to be supervising the loading of the ships. Which, to Tyrion’s astonishment, is almost complete.

Qhono comes to stand next to Grey Worm and Missandei, still holding Daenerys in his arms.

Tyrion doesn’t want to look at her. But he can’t look away. This will be the last time he sees her. His Queen. The woman he thought he would be serving for the rest of his life. A woman he loved, and admired dearly.

“What is going on?” Varys asks. “Why are the ships being loaded?”

“We are going home. We do not need to be here anymore.” Answers Grey Worm in his characteristically stoic voice. Though, Tyrion notes, there is a deep vein of sadness running beneath the tenor.

“But you do need to be here. Tell them to off-load the ships.” Says Varys.

“You do not give me orders. We do not need to be here. We came here for our Queen. Our Queen is dead. Westeros killed her. We are taking her home.”

“I am sorry for your loss, all of our losses of the Queen. I really am. But the Throne she wanted must still be won. And for that, you are needed.”

“We came to win the Throne for our Queen. Our Queen is dead. The Throne means nothing to us now.”

“But what of your Queen’s family? Her only family. Her nephew. He should, and must sit on the Iron Throne, and you must help put him there.”

“We came to win the Throne for our Queen. Our Queen is dead. The Throne means nothing to us now.” Grey Worm repeated.

“Her nephew is Jon Snow. You know how your Queen loved him. He is a Targaryen too. She would have wanted you to help him win the throne back for her family.”

“Daenerys Jelmazmo is the Queen we chose. We do not care that she is a Targareyn. That is not why we chose her.”

“You might not care that she is a Targaryen. But she did. She wanted to reclaim her family’s throne. You can help her achieve that goal, even in death, by putting Jon, her nephew, her family back on the Throne,”

“If Jon Snow is her family, if Jon Snow loved her, then why is he not here now?”

“Jon has other family that he…”

“Yes, Jon Snow has other family that he loves more. He stayed with them. He made his choice. He did not choose Daenerys Jelmazmo. And we did not choose him. We will not fight for him. We choose Daenerys Jelmazmo. We are taking her home.”

“Grey Worm,” Tyrion started carefully, “I think Daenerys would want to be laid to rest here, at Dragonstone, amongst her ancestors, her family.”

“We are Daenerys Jelmazmo’s family. She would want to be with us. She never knew her family. Us she knows. She will rest with people who love her.”

“We will take her back to Vaes Dothrak, so that she may enter the Night Lands. She is the Khaleesi of all the Dothraki. That is where she belongs. The greatest Khal or Khaleesi there ever was. The Stallion who Mounts the World.” Qhono’s voice is full of both pride and sadness.

Varys, he can tell, is getting desperate now. The ships are fully loaded, only Grey Worm, Missandei, Qhono, and Daenerys remain on shore.

“What of the green dragon? He should stay here. He belongs to Jon. Jon is his rider”

“ _Rhaegal_ belongs to no one.” Missandei said, lowly, and dangerously. “A dragon is not a slave. Lord Varys.”

“Jon rode Rhaegal, yes, but he did not bond with him. Not the way Her Grace was bonded with her children. From what Her Grace told me about dragons that means that Jon Snow is not his rider. Regardless, Rhaegal will stay if he wants, or follow us with his mother if he wants. I am certain he will follow his mother who he loves. Can you not hear him mourning for her Lord Varys? Or are you so busy scheming of ways to keep my Queens people that you cannot hear her sons cry out for her?”

Varys looked down, very likely shamed by Missandei, but he could tell that he was frustrated, that he had been counting on Rhaegal being bonded to Jon. That he was counting on Rhaegal staying.

“We should wait for Jon to get here, so that Rhaegal can make a proper decision.”

“Dragons are more intelligent than men, Lord Varys. Rhaegal does not need that. And we are not waiting in Westeros. We are leaving now.”

“You know Jon Snow." Varys tried once again, his voice sounding thin, and reedy. He was failing, and he was desperate.

"You know he would be a good King. Your Queen loved him. He is her family. You must fight for him. It is your duty.”

“Our duty is not to Targareyns, or to Westeros, or even to Daenerys Jelmazmo. Our loyalty is with our Queen, and only our Queen.”

Grey Worm turns then and marches to board the ship. Qhono follows, Daenerys cradled in his arms.

Missandei looks at them both scathingly. A look he never thought he would see on her face.

“You spent all those years with us and you still do not understand why we love her. Why we follow her. Meeting you both was the worst thing to ever happen to her.”

And then she too, was gone.

_**The evening of:** _

Jon is laying on the bed in his old room at Dragonstone clutching Dany’s diary in one arm, and holding tight to the piece of dragonglass in the other hand.

He is staring at the ceiling, he has been for some time, remembering all the times before when he’s laid in this same bed and thought of Dany.

First he thought her arrogant, and selfish. Then he begun to see that she was neither of those things, that she was actually humble, and so very very giving. This was after he’d spied her interacting with her people. Then those thoughts had turned to admiration. And of course, even from the very beginning, he had thought of her with lust.

He felt just as lost now as he did before. He didn’t think he’d ever find his way again, not now that the woman that was his fire, the woman he loves is gone.

His door opens, but he doesn’t even bother to lift his head to see who it is.

Slowly, Davos comes in to his line of vision. “Oh lad…” he says. And he can hear how sorry Davos is in his voice. Davos really liked Dany. He knows this. He’d reprimanded him a number of times at Winterfell about how he was allowing the Northerners to treat her.

“What happened, son?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. How to say it.

“Dany… Dany…”

“Start from the beginning, lad. Go on, you can do it.”

“I… I… you know I came ahead of the rest of the party. I noticed something was off. It was so quiet, there was no one around. Then Varys…” he trails off.

Through the haze of grief in his mind something suddenly occurs to him and he bolts up off the bed, running out of the room. He can distantly hear Davos calling him, but he doesn’t care.

He finds Tyrion and Varys sitting in Tyrion’s chambers talking.

He storms up to Varys and kicks the leg of his chair with such force that it breaks clean off and Varys falls to the ground on his back. Jon is on top of him in an instant. His hands gripping round his throat tightly.

“Was it you?” he demands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry... but if you think Varys is gonna get caught that easy, think again...


	5. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... this chapter might be a little boring... but it is all necessary set-up and logic to how things are going to be playing out on the Westeros side

All Jon can hear is a roaring sound. It’s coming from within him, he knows. It’s his own blood racing, raging through his body as he squeezes Varys around his throat with all his strength.

“Was it you?” He shouts again, right in his face, leaning over him menacingly. He knows he must look crazed. He cannot find it in himself to care.

Vaguely, in the periphery of his mind he can hear Tyrion and Davos calling his name, can feel them trying to pull him back. But neither of them have the strength to accomplish that. He doesn’t think a whole army of people could pull him back right now. He needs answers, and he is going to get them. Even if he has to beat Varys half to death with his bare hands to get them.

He lifts Varys by the neck and slams his head back down on the floor. Hard. It makes a sickening sound.

“I asked you a question” he demands, his voice unleashed and full of raw fury and grief.

“Was it you? Was it you who poisoned her? Was it you who killed Daenerys?”

Varys face is a splotchy mess of red, purple, and white. ‘ _Good’_ he thinks to himself before he lifts him up and slams his head into the floor again.

“Answer me” he yells, squeezing his throat even tighter.

He feels a gentle, calming hand on his shoulder, and hears Davos’ voice through the roaring in his ears.

“Lad, Jon, son, you’re not going to get any answers out of him if you choke the life out of him.”

He knows this makes sense, he does. But he doesn’t want to stop. He’s angry, he’s shattered, he’s lost, and he wants to make someone else feel even a small amount of the pain he himself is currently feeling. But he knows Davos is right.

Davos pulls a little more firmly on his shoulder and Jon slumps off of Varys and onto the floor. Tears that he hadn’t realised were there are streaming down his face. He wipes at them roughly and tries to gather his bearings. He can see that both Tyrion and Davos are looking at him pityingly. But amongst that pity he can see the same sadness he is feeling. They both have tears on their cheeks too.

Varys is spluttering and trying to sit up and shuffle further away from him all at the same time.

Jon lets out a growl that is more animal than human, and Varys ceases trying to move away. Though he continues to splutter and attempt to sit up, rubbing at his bruising throat as he does so.

For a tense moment, all that can be heard is heavy breathing. Davos still has his hand on his shoulder. Perhaps he is still trying to calm him, perhaps he is trying to stop him from lunging at Varys again. He doesn’t know.

Once Varys regains control of himself Jon looks him in the eye darkly.

“Was it? Was it you?”

“No” Varys rasps out. It sounds painful.

He coughs and speaks again, “It wasn’t me. I wouldn’t, couldn’t do that to Daenerys. To my horror, I do not know who did it. I should, I admit I should have known someone was trying to kill her. Who… who _did_ kill her. But it wasn’t me. I swear it. I knew how good she was for this world. I would never. Could never.”

Jon is eyeing him warily. He doesn’t know Varys well enough to know whether or not he is being sincere.

Tyrion must sense his reluctance to believe, for he jumps in with “It wasn’t him, Jon. I know it wasn’t. I was the one…” Tyrion stops and takes a gulping breath that doesn’t seem to help him much “I was the one who found her, who told Varys. Varys was just as shocked as I was. I know Varys. I’ve known him forever. I know this wasn’t him.”

Tyrion seems to be imploring him to believe. But he can’t trust anyone. He doesn’t know either of these people. He can’t trust either of them. He doesn’t know them well enough.

Then it occurs to him, there is one person who would know. One person who he does know, one person he does trust. And suddenly he is up again, racing out of the room leaving Varys, Tyrion, and Davos behind looking bewildered.

Dany, Dany would have known. She was smart about this kind of thing. Careful about this kind of thing.

She had to be, he thought sadly, otherwise she wouldn’t have survived to see adulthood.

But she would have known. Perhaps if she had suspected that Varys was acting against her she would have written about it in her diary.

He has been reluctant to read it. Hadn’t opened it again since the first time he saw it. He didn’t want to invade her privacy. But this was important. If she had left any hint as to who may have been trying to hurt her then Jon would be able to kill them. Rip them to pieces and feel satisfaction in doing so.

He got to his room and grabbed the diary, turned it to the back and opened it to the last page.

It was blank. He flipped through the pages. There were so many blank pages. So many days of her life that she would now never get to live. So many of her plans she would never get to enact. His heart ached, and his fingers trembled as he turned the pages searching for the last entries.

He skimmed through them shakily, eyes and brain trying to seek and decipher any kind of clue that would lead him to the culprit.

But there was nothing. Well, there was plenty to be read, and he would dwell on that later. But there was nothing that pointed to Varys’ or anyone’s guilt. Nor to her suspecting anything.

The last entry, he could see it was dated the evening before, did mention that she had thought her supper tasted a little odd, but that she didn’t think anything particularly off about that because she had had so little appetite of late that perhaps she had just forgotten what good food was supposed to taste like. Then she had decided to retire to bed early.

To bed. He thought.

To bed where she had bled out and died.

Alone.

Jon hung his head and tried to steady his breathing. Calm his shaking.

He hated this. He hated it. A part of him still refused to believe it was true. But in this, he knew he could trust Dany. Dany, and her incredible instincts would have known if Varys was plotting against her. And she would have noted it in her diary. He knows she would have. Why else would she go to such trouble to hide her diary in her secret place if she wasn’t going to share with it all her real fears, and worries, and thoughts – which he knew, just from the little of what he had skimmed, that she had.

And she never would have eaten anything if she even suspected that it could harm her.

Dany hadn’t known. It seems impossible that she hadn’t known. But she hadn’t.

He shudders to think what her mind had been so preoccupied with that she hadn’t seen this coming. Dany who was so smart about this kind of thing. His Dany.

But Jon has to be sure. He wants to hear what Varys and Tyrion have to say for themselves. Truth be told, he doesn’t suspect Tyrion. Tyrion looks almost as distraught as he himself feels. He knows that Tyrion loved Dany. That he thought that she was the hope, the future that Westeros needed. But Varys…

Jon tucks Dany’s diary away safely and heads back into Tyrion’s room.

On the outside he appears much calmer, but he can feel his rage coiled and ready to strike again at the slightest provocation.

Davos, Tyrion and Varys are now all sitting at the table. The broken chair having been moved aside. Jon pulls up another chair and sits facing them all where they look at him with an odd mixture of fear and sympathy on their faces. Even Varys looks more sympathetic than he does afraid. Jon doesn’t know what to think.

Tyrion, it’s always Tyrion, starts talking.

“I, I know you’ve had a horrible, horrible shock today, Jon. Believe me, I know. I, I, I passed out when I saw what was in that room, when I realised what had happened. I, I won’t say I know how you feel, because I don’t, not really, not under these circumstances. But I am so very, very sorry. For you, for all of us, for Westeros. I loved her. Not the way you did, I know. But I loved her as my Queen. I think, I think I loved her a little like my saviour. She gave my life purpose again when I thought I had lost all purpose. I…”

Tyrion is crying again now, and Jon can’t hold it against him. He wants to keep crying too. He believes Tyrion. He does. He saw how Tyrion looked at Dany. She _was_ a saviour to him. To him she represented hope. That was Dany’s way. She was the saviour to so many. The hope for so many.

“But Jon, this wasn’t Varys. I don’t know what my word means to you, but I vouch for him. Like I said, I was the one who told him what had happened. He really was just as shocked as we all are.”

Jon looks to Varys. He doesn’t fully believe this. Some things about it still seem off. But if Dany hadn’t suspected Varys, and if Tyrion, who loved Dany was vouching for Varys…

He waits, deadly silent, for Varys to say something for himself.

“I swear to you, Jon, it wasn’t me. I failed her, yes, but I didn’t kill her. The most likely candidate, surely you must realise is Cersei. Qyburn is a master of poisons. It would have been nothing for him to mix something up. And he’s sly, he could have, indeed he must have, found a way to get that poison into Daenerys. Cersei knows she had no chance of beating Daenerys, her armies, and her dragons, in a fair fight, so she sought out another way to rid herself of her enemy. That is what makes the most sense. You must see that.”

Jon thinks on this. It makes sense. Perhaps too much sense. But it does make sense.

It’s true that Cersei could never hope to defeat Dany on the battlefield. And Cersei was certainly not above using underhanded techniques.

But this explanation infuriates him. He is a man of action. He wants vengeance for Dany and he wants it now. He remembers this feeling. He had it when he heard about his father, his uncle’s execution, when he’s heard about Robb’s murder, when he’d fought Ramsay. But he never wanted, and doesn’t want now, blind vengeance. He always, and still does, want justice. And he cannot deliver true justice when the culprit is a shadow, an unknown that he cannot identify.

“Yes” Jon says at last, still never taking his eyes off of Varys, “Yes, I do see that. But that doesn’t explain why you approached me the way you did on the beach. You didn’t even tell me Dany was… You didn’t even tell me. You just told me that I must stake my claim to the throne.”

Tyrion is looking at Varys oddly now, and Jon thinks he might be on to something.

Varys sighs and rubs his throat, “I simply wanted you to see how important your claim is now. Now that there is no other option. I needed you to understand that before you found out why. Before you reacted and started grieving as I knew you would. It was tactless, perhaps. And I am sorry for that. But you must see that I was only doing what I thought best for the realm. You are it’s only hope now.”

This too does, Jon has to admit, seem a viable and plausible way of thinking and acting coming from a man like Varys who has a one track, goal orientated mind. He ignores the latter part of Varys speech and asks what he’s been wanting to know this whole time. He asks the question he’s dreading the answer to.

“How did you even know? How did you know who my true parents were?”

It is Tyrion who answers, his voice low, somewhat ashamed.

“Sansa told me, “ he admits, and Jon’s heart sinks “And then I told Varys.”

Jon recoils into himself.

She’d said this would happen. Dany had told him this would happen. And he just hadn’t listened to her. He’s furious at Sansa, she’d sworn, sworn she would tell no one. But instead she had told Tyrion, probably the first chance she got.

Dany had said to him that she wasn’t the girl he grew up with. And to an extent he had internally agreed, and that is why he had decided to trust her with this secret. The girl he had grown up with would have told. He thought that the woman Sansa had become was better than that, more honourable. But he’d failed to take into account how much she hated Dany. He’d failed to realise that Sansa’s maturity had also come hand in hand with a ruthlessness that he could not understand.

He cannot think about that now. He needs to deal with one blow at a time or he is going to kill someone, or himself, fool that he is.

“Did you,” he addresses Tyrion, “Did you tell Dany what you knew, how you knew it?”

Tyrion shakes his head bleakly “I didn’t,” he says. “She’d, “ he hesitates, as though he’s not sure whether he should tell Jon whatever it is he is going to say.

“She’d been rather, upset, shall we say, of late. Not herself. A little down. I hadn’t wanted to add more worries to what she was already dealing with unless it was necessary.”

He believes Tyrion, and it makes him hate himself more. He knows, at least in part, that Dany was upset because of him, because of the North, because of the way that he, and the North had treated her and her people. Because of the way they had fallen apart, and the way that they parted. He will never forgive himself for that. He will hate himself forever that she spent her last days alive upset over something that never would have happened if he had not been such a coward.

Varys is looking at him now, and his eyes are set, resolute. Jon knows where this is going, and he does not want it. Does not even want to hear it.

“Jon,” he speaks in what he probably assumes is a calming and authoritative tone, but really it just comes off as grating.

“Everything I said to you on the beach earlier, it is still all true. You are the last, the only hope for Westeros now. Cersei has to go. You know that. And you are the only one who can depose her. You are the only one left with a legitimate claim to the Throne. You have to take it.”

“I told you. I told Dany. I told everyone who knows, I. Don’t. Want. It.” Jon say, his patience has worn thin with this particular line of conversation. He didn’t want the Throne. At all. Now less than ever, if that were possible.

But Varys continues, “What you want doesn’t matter, I’m afraid. This is the only way forward for you now. The only thing you can do to ensure that your family, that the North is protected. You must fight for the Throne. And you must win. It is your duty to them and to all the people of the realm.”

Jon is about to shout that he doesn’t give a damn about his duty to the realm right now, when everything else Varys just said sinks in.

“What do you mean my family? What does this have to do with the safety of my family?”

“Everything.” Varys says ominously.

“What do you…”

Varys cuts him off, he sounds urgent, like he needs to make Jon understand.

“You know what Cersei is. What she’ll do to maintain her power. You know how she hates to have her power undermined. She despises your cousin, Lady Sansa. She believes her complicit in the murder of her first-born, of Joffery, of her favourite son. And then she escaped from Kings Landing before Cersei could do anything about that. You know she will have neither forgotten, nor forgiven that act, or that humiliation.”

“Sansa didn’t kill Joffrey.”

“No, but Cersei thinks she did, and it is those thoughts that she will be stewing upon, acting upon.”

“Then you and Lady Sansa took back Winterfell from the Boltons, Cersei’s chosen Wardens of the North. Do you think she has forgotten that? To her that is treason. But you didn’t stop there. Lady Sansa declared herself Lady of Winterfell after killing her Lord husband, a capitol crime…”

“He…”

“I know what he was. I am explaining to you how Cersei is viewing this situation. Then, to add treason to treason, you were declared King in the North, making the North an independent Kingdom and breaking away from Cersei’s domain. Did you think she will tolerate that?”

“She has so far.”

“Ah, that is because she had a bigger enemy in Daenerys. But as soon as she discovers that Daenerys is no longer a threat to her, where do you think she is going to turn all her attentions? All of her forces?”

Jon is growing cold. He had not considered any of this. When they took back the North he was only thinking of keeping Sansa safe. Then he’d met Dany, and he had assumed, he’d known, that she would beat Cersei and that she would be a fair, good, and just Queen. That she would protect them.

“Then,” Varys goes on, as though Jon can stand to hear any more, “you very loudly, and publicly, at Kings Landing, in front of Cersei’s own people declared yourself and the North for Queen Daenerys, humiliating Cersei, and making yourself, and the North, enemies of the Crown.”

Jon curses his own stupidity. What had he been thinking that day? He said it was that he was true to his word, but he’d proven, as Dany pointed out, only a few months later, that that was not always the case.

He knows what he’d been thinking. He’d been overwhelmed with admiration, and gratitude and love for Dany. Dany who was doing so much for him. Dany who had pledged to help him for nothing in return. Dany who had already lost so much for him. Dany who had sat anxiously by his bedside waiting for him to wake. Dany who’s warm, soft hand he’d held in his own. He’d been thinking that he wanted to do something grand to show her how much he appreciated her, how much he believed in her, how much he venerated her. And so he had declared himself for her. He couldn’t regret it. No matter how much trouble it was heaping upon him now. It was one of, perhaps the only time he had publicly stood up for Dany. He could not regret that. He could not regret showing her through his actions and his words how much he believed in her. That he stood by her. Especially since he failed to do so time, and time again after that.

“As soon as Cersei discovers that Daenerys is dead,”

Jon winces, does he have to keep saying it? Does he have to keep reminding him? Does he have to keep making it sound so real, so final?

“She will turn her attentions North. The North is decimated. First the Boltons, then the War for the Dawn saw to that. The surrounding lands were torn up and rendered useless for anything profitable by all the fighting. Huge parts of Winterfell itself were destroyed during the Long Night. I know that most of the food stores of the North were being kept there to feed the people, and I know that many of those stores were destroyed, or ruined when the Keep was. If you want your family, and the North to have a chance of surviving winter then you _must_ claim the Throne as soon as possible so that you can send aid to help them do so. There is no other way.”

“And that is just the North. As for your family. Cersei will come after them. You know she will. You and your family have angered and humiliated her too many times for her to be able to ignore it. And she won’t just be taking prisoners this time. She will be taking heads.”

“Fighting for, and claiming your rightful Throne is the only way you can protect them all, Jon. You must know that, you must see that.”

Jon knows, he knows that everything that Varys is saying is true. It’s scaring him stupid. But he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t. There has to be another way.

“I do see that. I do. But I don’t want it. Dany… Dany…” All he can think of is how much Dany did want the Throne. Of how she should be the one making plans right now. Of how he should have been helping her make those plans.

“Yes,” Varys continues. Does he ever shut up? How did Dany put up with this? People say she has a temper, but she must have had the patience of a Saint to have dealt with Varys for so long.

“Yes, Daenerys. Think of her too. I know you loved her. Just as I know how much she loved you.”

Jon looks down. He’s going to cry again. And he doesn’t want to hear Varys talk about their love. It seems to sully it somehow, in some way he cannot define. He feels Davos put his comforting hand back on his shoulder. He’d almost forgotten that Tyrion and Davos were in the room. Varys had been monopolizing the conversation so thoroughly. A quick glance shows him that Tyrion is crying quietly again. Or perhaps he’d never stopped? Davos looks solemn. As though all of this information, all of this responsibility is weighing on him as much as it is Jon.

“All she wanted was to reclaim the throne for her family. She cannot do that now. But _you_ can. You are her last living family member. She wanted to restore the Targaryen name. You can do that for her. You know it was almost certainly Cersei who killed Daenerys. Claiming the throne would serve four purposes: you would be doing your duty to the realm which deserves a good, and just leader, you would be protecting your family and your home, you would be restoring the Targaryen legacy just as Daenerys dreamed of doing, and, in taking the Throne from Cersei, you would be getting vengeance on the woman who killed Daenerys.”

Jon takes this all in slowly. He can see the logic, and that is the problem. He doesn’t want this. But he can see Varys’ logic.

His thoughts are a frenzy. He thinks about his sisters, about all that Sansa and Arya have been through, how it’s his duty to protect them, how he loves them, how despite how they’ve changed and that Sansa betrayed him, and Arya did too – in a different way. She betrayed the special bond they had shared while growing up by siding with Sansa over him, by never even giving Dany a chance.

He wants to protect them. He knows he must. He may be angry at them now, but he certainly doesn’t want any harm to come to them. He does not want them starving, or at the mercy of a merciless Cersei. He does not want them dead.

And Bran, after everything they had done to ensure that Bran would survive the Long Night, to lose him now would render all that pointless. And of course Cersei would kill Bran, despite him personally having done nothing to offend her. Bran was the one who had seen the truth of his parentage, he would be a threat to her just for that. But beyond that, he was the last trueborn, male Stark. Of course she would not let him live.

But, as for doing this for Dany, in Dany’s name. That part doesn’t feel right to Jon. Yes, he knew she loved him. And yes, he knew she wanted to restore the name of her House. But, regardless of who his father was, Dany was the last Dragon. Not his father, as so many people often said, and certainly, certainly not him. It was Dany. It was always meant to be Dany. But now, now it cannot be Dany.

But it should not be him. He did not deserve it. He had not worked, and fought, and built himself up from nothing for this. He had just happened to be born to his parents. Dany, Dany had earned this. Through every action she’d made, she had earned this. He didn’t want to take it from her. He never had.

That was why he was so adamant in telling her he did not want it. Why he had told her that repeatedly. Why he could barely be around her towards the end at Winterfell knowing that his very existence was a threat to everything that she had made for herself. Everything she deserved and had earned.

How could he look her in the eye knowing that? How could he accept her love when, simply by virtue of birth, he was suddenly a threat to her? He couldn’t. And so he had pulled away. He had pulled away, and he had lost her. Lost her forever. Now she was gone and would never know how much he loved her still, always. But that he was frightened of how much he could hurt her. Not because he would, he never would. But because of who he was. She probably thought he had pulled away because he had stopped loving her.

That thought devastated him more than anything else. The idea that Dany had died thinking that he didn’t love her. When the truth was that he loved her with everything that he was, he was just too much of a coward to show it.

He knows Dany believed him a good King. He remembers, he remembers what he thought he had heard that night on the ship _“I want you to be my King”. _Is that what she had really said? Had she meant it? Had she wanted him to stand beside her when she became Queen?

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to be King. And he certainly won’t do it in Dany’s name, for Dany’s memory. She deserved to be Queen herself. And she should have been. She didn’t need anyone, let alone him, to do things for her. To do things in her name. She was Daenerys Stormborn, she always had, and was always capable, of doing things for herself.

But as for his family, well that was a different matter. He did need to protect them. It was his duty. And this, he knows, might be the only way. It would be different if the North were prepared for winter, but because of the Boltons, and the War, they weren’t. They needed aid from the other kingdoms to survive, just like Varys said. And he knew Cersei wouldn’t provide them with it. He didn’t want it. But this was really the only way.

He looks up at Varys and Tyrion. Perhaps something had shifted in his eyes, on his face, for Varys looks pleased, as though he knows Jon had made up his mind. But really, he has some more questions.

“I see the truth of what you’re saying. And as much as I don’t want it, I can see it might be the only way. But I can’t see how it will work. I wouldn’t even know how to go about taking the Throne from Cersei.”

“But we do know how to do that, Jon,” says Varys. His tone is slippery and wheedling. Jon doesn’t like it at all. But he knows he needs all the assistance he can get.

“Tyrion and I know how to do this. We can help you, like we were helping Daenerys. We can advise you.”

Jon scoffs internally to himself thinking that if they had truly been helping Dany then she would be Queen already.

But, then, he knows that isn’t quite fair. It was the War for the Dawn that had thrown her plans asunder. It was necessary that she came and fought for them. They would all be dead if she hadn’t. So he cannot lay that blame on Tyrion and Varys. But if she had taken Kings Landing first like she’d wanted – like Tyrion, and Varys, and, yes, and he himself, had advised against – then she might be Queen now. There would have been no Cersei to poison her. If, indeed, it had actually been Cersei.

Varys misreads Jon’s silence and adds placatingly, “With Ser Davos’ help too of course. He has never led you astray has he? The three of us together can accomplish this for you.”

He sounds so confident. Jon wonders how he can sound so confident.

“And how do propose we unseat Cersei? We don’t have the men. You know how few fighting men of the North are left. And that’s assuming they’ll fight for me once they find out I’m actually a Targaryen. You saw how they treated Daenerys.”

“They’ll fight for you because, unlike Daenerys, you are one of their own. They’ll know that you will hold their interests in your mind when you are King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“That may, or may not be true,” though, Jon does think that it probably is true. The North is ambitious, they would love to see one of their own on the Throne. “But we still don’t have the numbers.”

Varys shakes his head from side to side ruefully. “I admit that I believed that Daenerys’ armies would have stayed in Westeros at least long enough to secure the Throne for you, her nephew. But they deserted the cause immediately.”

“Alas, those savages have no honour. They do not understand the concept of family or duty.” Varys sighs.

Jon cannot believe what he is hearing. He stands so abruptly that his chair falls to the floor and Varys and Tyrion wince.

“Do NOT call them savages” he says lowly, his voice laced with potent anger.

“And do NOT speak about them that way.”

“Why would they fight for me? Did you honestly believe that they would fight for me because I am her nephew? Because I am a Targaryen? Do you know nothing about them?”

“They did not fight for Daenerys because it was their duty. They were not her bannermen who were obligated to follow her call to arms by law. It was not duty that made them follow her. It was _loyalty_. They were loyal to her. And only to her. Because of what she’d done for them. Because she loved them and was loyal to them in return. That’s the difference, Lord Varys. You expected them to fight for me based on Westerosi norms, out of duty to the Targaryen name. They have no duty to the Targaryen name. Missandei told me herself, she wasn’t their Queen because she was the daughter of some King they never knew. She was the Queen they chose. And they chose well. Why would they fight for me, the grandson of a King they never knew? Because I was the nephew of the Queen they did know? That’s bullshit. They didn’t choose me. I never did anything for them to earn their loyalty. And they act only out of loyalty. Not duty. And loyalty is better. Loyalty is true. Duty is a service one must perform whether they want to or not. But when people act out of loyalty it is _only_ because they want to.”

“I would never have expected them to fight for me. I would never have even asked them to. I wasn’t the one that freed them from a life in chains. I wasn’t the one who, through sheer faith, and belief in myself united all the khalasars of the Dothraki. I don’t even speak their fucking languages. They owe me no duty because they do not act out of duty, and they owe me no loyalty because I have done nothing to earn it from them.”

“I hope you didn’t ask them to fight for me, Varys.”

Jon is out of breath from his tirade, but he can see from the look on Varys’ face that he had, indeed, asked that of Dany’s people.

“How could you? They must have been distraught. They had just lost their Queen, their Khaleesi, their Mhysa. Do you know what she meant to them?”

“You were with her. You were with her in Essos. Surely you of all people can see why her people loved her?”

He’s furious, he knows he needs to calm down. But this is hitting him too close to home. He and Dany had argued over how he’d treated her people, or, more specifically, how he’d allowed them to be treated in the North. And what she’d said had shamed him so terribly. He would never make that mistake again. They were too important to Dany. He would never hear a bad word against them again.

“We were wrong,” Tyrion says. “We know that now. Don’t we Varys?” He nudges Varys hard with his elbow – Jon thinks it was probably supposed to be subtle, but from his elevated position of still standing he saw it clear as day.

“Yes. We know that now. I apologise. But like you, we…” Tyrion glares at him, “I” he corrects himself “was thinking of the numbers. I had certainly assumed that your dragon would stay with you.”

“Rhaegal is Daenerys’ son. He is not my dragon. Dragons do not belong to anyone.”

“Unless they are their riders, and you rode him.”

“I did, yes, but that was because Daenerys encouraged it. Her sons loved to please her, to make her happy. You could feel how happy they got when they made her happy…” he trails off then, thinking of how wonderful that day was. The day they had all gone flying together. How he could feel the joy radiating from Drogon, and Rhaegal both, and how he could tell, somehow, that that joy came from making their mother smile.

“But you still rode him. Does that not make you his rider? You should call to him” Varys interrupted his reverie. He seemed determined that Jon would have Rhaegal.

“I wasn’t bonded to Rhaegal. Not the way you need to be. If I had been he would have stayed at Winterfell when I did. I cannot call to him because I have no bond to call to him through. They are their mother’s children. They would have wanted to be with her. I assume they both followed the ships?”

Tyrion nods slowly. Sadly.

“They were crying out for her” he says weakly, hiccupping.

Davos shoots Tyrion a look and Tyrion abruptly shuts up. Jon is grateful. He doesn’t think he could handle hearing how Drogon and Rhaegal reacted to the death of their mother right now. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to hear about that.

“So we still don’t have the numbers.” Jon say, desperate to change the subject.

“No,” Varys says slowly. “But you need not worry about that. That is what I am for. This is what I do. I will find you allies. Allies from the other Kingdoms. They will rally behind you. Of this I am certain.” He sounds so confident, so sure of himself.

“How can you know?”

“I’ve been sending out ravens informing the Lords, those with no love for Cersei, of who you are, who you _really_ are. They will stand by you. They will call their banners for you. They will fight for you. I am sure.”

Jon’s heart is stuck in an erratic pattern after hearing this.

“When, when did you start sending out these ravens?”

Varys looks uncomfortable beneath his, Davos’, and Tyrion’s scrutinizing eyes.

“Just over a week or so ago. I am expecting responses any day now. I…”

“Just over a week ago?” Jon exclaims incredulously.

“When Daenerys was still alive?”

Varys nods, still looking uncomfortable.

“Why the fuck would you do that? Why? When she was here, alive. When you knew she wanted and could have taken the Throne. Why the fuck would you try to overturn that? That could have been what put her in danger. That could have been what killed her.”

He is livid – but he acknowledges his own hypocrisy – he was the one who told first, who put her in danger by telling. He could be the reason she was killed.

Jon wishes he’d never told his sisters. Or, he wishes that his sisters were the people he had thought they were. Then they never would have said anything.

He knows, really, that he should have known better – ‘don’t tell Sansa’ was a common refrain between him and Arya when they were younger.

But this was different – this wasn’t some silly childhood secret – and he’d made her swear, swear that she wouldn’t tell – in front of their father’s gods, the old gods, the gods of the North, the North that Sansa claimed she loved so much.

He didn’t think she would go so far as to break that solemn vow – but now he’s wondering if he was naïve to think that. That if perhaps he had just listened to Dany and not told them, then he wouldn’t be in this position now – of having to fight against terrible odds, for a Throne he didn’t want, just to keep his family and his home safe.

Because despite everything that Varys had said, he couldn’t rule out entirely the possibility that if he hadn’t told then Dany might still be alive. They did not know who poisoned her. It might have been Cersei, as Tyrion and Varys were convinced it was. But Jon could not stop considering the possibility that Varys - or one of the Lords whom Varys had sent word of his parentage to - had done it. He couldn’t rule out the possibility that he himself had killed Dany by telling. He would never forgive himself he knows.

Jon has had more than enough for one evening. He cannot be in this room anymore.

“I’ll take the night to think about it. I’ll hear your plans tomorrow. Then I’ll decide.” He says wearily. Then he turns and walks slowly out of the room.

He is exhausted. He didn’t want to fight another war. He would have done so for Dany, because Dany would have made a great Queen, and he’d known, with her as Queen, that there would have been peace, stability, for the first time in Westeros since the War of the Five Kings had started. It would have been his last war. And then he could have lived. He could have lived with Dany…

As he walks away from the room and through the corridors, he notices that the rest of the Northern party had made their way into the castle.

Jon knows he may sound irrational, but he doesn’t want them there. He doesn’t want them traipsing all over Dany’s home. Acting like they belonged. Like the owned the place when they had made her feel so unwelcome in the North. It makes him feel sick to see them wandering her halls, sitting on her chairs, walking along her beach.

Dragonstone was Dany’s childhood dream. It was the place she most wanted to see. It was her home. And now she was dead and her home was filled with people who did everything they could to make her not feel at home. It was too much. He hung his head and kept walking.

All the men of the Vale had stayed at Winterfell. Sansa had insisted that if Jon was going to force all the fighting men of the North off to fulfil a promise that they didn’t make, and that they did not want to fulfil, then he could not leave Winterfell unprotected.

She stated that he did not speak for the Vale when he bent the knee as King in the North. The Vale answers only to her. Jon could hear the arrogance and pride in her voice as she had said that.

He’d been angry at her for once again going against his authority, for doing it publicly.

But he didn’t care now. At least that means there are fewer ungrateful arseholes roaming all over Dany’s home and desecrating her memory.

Jon finds himself wandering around close to Dany’s room. He cannot bring himself to go in there again. But he cannot seem to stay too far away from there either.

As he nears the doors he hears two Northern voices. He looks around the corner and can see them opening and closing all the doors, looking for something. They hadn’t gotten to Dany’s door yet.

“I just want to see it” one of them says “I want to see the place where the dragon bitch died. Gods I wish I could have seen it for myself. That I’d been here to really see it”

Red. All Jon can see is red. And all he can feel is rage.

He turns the corner and shoves the man who had spoken up against the wall and punches him hard in the face. Once. Twice. He’s going in for a third time when the second man pulls him back.

“What the fuck, Snow.” He says “Why’re you acting like this. You certainly didn’t give two shits about her when she was at Winterfell. Gods, you looked happier to see the back of her when she left that most of us did. And that’s really saying something.” 

He wants to shout at them. To scream and tell them how fucking ungrateful they are. But he has no energy. This day has drained him completely.

And to his eternal shame, what they are saying isn’t untrue. That is how he had acted. He couldn’t blame them for thinking that that was how he actually felt.

“As your King, I am ordering you to stay out of this corridor. That goes for everyone else too. Spread the word. If I see or hear of anyone else in here I’ll have their heads, then yours. Understood?”

They nod their understanding and he pushes them down the hall and out of the way.

Once they’ve gone he begins to slowly walk back to his room.

He squeezes the piece of dragonglass he’d given Dany, and that Dany had left for him so tight he worries suddenly that he is going to break it.

He loosens his grip. He won’t break this piece of her. Not like he broke so many other pieces of her.

He finally makes it back to his room and his tired body collapses onto the bed.

He tries to sleep. He does. But the tears and the fears continue to flow through him equally. His thoughts are a mess. He doesn’t understand. He’d started off this day thinking he would finally, finally be seeing Dany again. That he would get a chance to really talk to her. To explain, and apologise.

But instead Dany was dead. And now suddenly, he has to be King if he wants his people and his family to have a chance at surviving.

He cannot calm down. His breathing is erratic. He recalls how Dany would always soothe him when he got like this, too far inside his own head. He threads his hands into his own hair and drags them down to his bottom curls which he then winds around his fingers.

He does it again, and again, and again. But it is no use. It doesn’t feel the same. It doesn’t calm him down, or make him feel cherished. It doesn’t make him feel loved. Because it is not Dany doing it.

And Dany will never do it again. He wants to rip his hair from his head. But won’t because Dany had loved it. It was hers. He won’t take anything else she loved or wanted away from her.

He doesn’t know what to do. He is worried about his family. He can feel his strong sense of duty and desire to protect them. But he doesn’t want to be King of the Seven Kingdoms. How could he be?

Dany had thought him a good king. But he had never had to prove to her that he was. Not like with the Northerners who he was constantly being judged and measured by. She had just always thought it. As though, to her, it was an unassailable truth.

He remembers asking her about it one night on the ship to White Harbour. It was at the very beginning of their relationship, and the question had been plaguing his mind.

“You know you never asked why.” He’d said to her

She’d stretched like a cat and turned to face him, nestled comfortably in the cradle of his arms. “Why what?”

“Why a bastard would be chosen as King in the North. Did you never wonder why? Did it not confuse you?” He looked down at her seriously, he needed to know the answer to this question. Ex-King in the North, or no, he was still a bastard bedding a trueborn Queen. He couldn’t believe his luck, nor his audacity. He was insecure about it. He needed to know what she thought.

She just shrugged and said simply, so simply, as though to her the answer was truly this simple, “I just assumed that they saw who you are.”

“You say that the Northerners are a tough people, but that they remember. That they respect duty, and honour, and bravery. And you are the most dutiful, most honourable, bravest man there is.” She kissed him fully on the lips for several moments, her kisses stealing his breath as much as her words did.

“How could they pick anyone but you?” She smiled brightly at him and tapped him on the nose lightly, causing him to smile back despite himself.

“I would have been confused if they hadn’t picked you. Your birth has nothing to do with it - you are the King they chose. The same with me and my people. They do not care who I was born as, how I lived. They chose me for me. Just as your people chose you for you.”

She made it sound so easy. She truly believed he deserved to be freely chosen.

“It’s not the same Dany. It’s obvious why your people would choose you regardless of your birth. You’re amazing.”

She looked at him seriously, “You, Jon, you are amazing.”

He must have made a very disbelieving face, for she wrinkled her nose in consternation.

“I wish you could see you how I see you, how your people clearly must see you. It’s obvious to me why your people would choose you. So no, I never wondered about that for a second. It never occurred to me to ask why because the reasons were so obvious.”

Finally, eventually he fell into a restless sleep with tears in his eyes, sweet memories of Dany of his mind, and a piece of dragonglass held in his hand.

The next morning came too soon. Jon didn’t want to face it. He never wanted to face another morning, another day, ever again. Not without Dany.

But there was too much at stake. He knew this. So he dragged himself from bed and walked towards the planned Council meeting. He forwent breakfast. He can’t remember the last time he ate, but he feels as though he’ll never be hungry again.

In the room he can see Varys, Tyrion, Davos, and a dozen or so of the major Northern Lords.

Varys looks to him but he takes a seat and doesn’t say a word. He said he would listen to their plans and then decide. They can run this show until then.

Varys opens by telling them about his parents. His real parents. The whole story. Some of them are skeptical at first, but Varys is persuasive, and he can tell that the Northerners want to believe.

He hears one of them mutter “if we have to fight for a Targaryen at least it’s a Northern one.”

Varys then begins to outline his plan.

Cersei has the Golden Company, he tells them. She will want to use them because she went through a lot to get them, because she has paid for them. Right now they are defending Kings Landing but he cannot rule out that she will send them to attack Dragonstone.

Cannot predict what she will do with them once she hears that Daenerys is dead.

Therefore, he continues, he thinks the best course of action is to retreat to Winterfell. It is far more defensible than Dragonstone given that they do not have an armada. Besides, this will give him more time to spread the word and gather allies from the other kingdoms.

One of the Lords asks Varys why he hasn’t begun doing this already. Why he didn’t start doing this the moment he found out who the true heir to the Throne was.

Varys says, and he looks far less ashamed of himself about it this morning than he did last night, that he had, in fact begun doing so a week or more ago, and that he was expecting replies and letters of sworn fealty any day now.

The Northern lords, Jon can see, approve heartily of this.

“She was a false queen” he hears one say.

“The people had a right to know.”

“They would always choose a Westerosi male over a foreign whore of a woman.”

All Jon can think about is how right Dany was to be afraid of this information getting out.

Listening to these people speak. Seeing what had already happened. He should have known.

He curses himself. He knows Targaryen history. He knows how these things always go. He should have listened to Dany. He doesn’t want this. He should have listened to Dany. He wants Dany.

Tyrion then suggests that they leave some men here, at Dragonstone, to make the island appear inhabited. To make it seem as though Dany is still there so that Cersei doesn’t get suspicious. To stall Cersei discovering that she is dead. To stall for more time.

Varys says he would very much have liked to have done that but because they now do not have the use of Dany’s armies they do not have enough men to spare for this diversionary tactic.

Some Northern Lord remarks on how dishonourable they are to not fight for Jon when they had come all this way to fight for them.

At this, he cannot keep silent any longer.

He points out that Dany’s armies _did_ fight for them during the battle for the Dawn.

The Lords mutter that they weren’t really fighting for them.

“Daenerys and her people came at my behest, so yes. Yes she came and fought _for_ us.”

“Aye, and you had to bend the knee to for her to do it. So she didn’t really fight for us at all. She did it to get something she wanted.”

Jon sighed. His opinion of himself had never been lower. Why had he put it that way to the Lords? Why had he lied about why Dany had come to fight? He knows why he did it. He wanted them to continue to respect him.

He’d liked that, after a lifetime of being looked down on because of his birth, that these people were finally looking up to him. It had made him feel good, and he’d wanted to keep that feeling. But the price of keeping it had been to drag down the one, the only person who had never looked down at him for being a bastard. The only person who had ever cared about him as a person. The only person who had loved him.

He should tell them the truth now, he thought. But... if they were to do this, actually make this work he would still need their fickle respect. And, to his shame, he could not think of another way to keep it.

Gods he hoped Dany would forgive him for continuing on this falsehood. She’d been so upset about it at Winterfell, and rightly so. She said she’d understood, but Dany understood everything. She was so good at that. Seeing, truly seeing how other people were feeling and, importantly, why they felt that way. But just because she understood, didn’t make it right.

But he had no choice now. Did he? No, he needed these men. To protect the North, to protect his family. No, he had no choice. Surely Dany would understand again? Wouldn’t she? Wouldn’t she?

The people of the North continue to grumble that Dany’s armies still should have done their duty and fought for Jon before going back to Essos since he is the last of the Targaryen House and their previous duty was to a Targaryen Queen. Thus, their duty should be to Jon now.

Jon hates that that is how they view Dany’s people. But he bites his tongue. He bites it hard enough that it bleeds. He needs these men. He needs them on his side. He needs them to protect his family. He cannot say what he wants to say. What he wants to scream.

No matter how distressing it is for the long-term success of this plan, he is glad that the lack of numbers mean that none of the Northerners would be remaining on Dragonstone. They didn’t belong here. They didn’t deserve to be in Dany’s home.

He can see no other way. He’d thought on it all night but he couldn’t think of another way out. Another way to keep his family, his people safe.

He has to do this.

He ends the Council by reluctantly agreeing.

He says he doesn’t want it, but he will do it because it is the only way to ensure the long term safety of the North.

The Northern Lords cheer him. Though it feels hollow. Nothing like it used to feel like. Then they leave the room.

Varys says to him that the best rulers are those who don’t want it.

Jon says he thinks this is bullshit.

He says that Daenerys would have been a great queen because of how much she cared, not because of how little. She cared for everyone, and she had plans. All he had was a questionable claim and a selfish want to protect his own family. How would that make him a good King of all Seven Kingdoms?

He doesn’t wait for an answer. He just turns and walks out of the room

**_Tyrion:_ **

Privately, Tyrion agrees with Jon. Jon is a good leader. He can rally men to fight, and lead them on the battlefield. People, well, most people, respect him.

But while he was a King, he was not a ruler. He’d only been King in the North, with the limited power and position that title held, and the one act of diplomacy he’d attempted had been abysmal.

Tyrion thinks back on the way Jon had demanded Daenerys’ help. Demanded. He’d been rude, and abrasive. It doesn’t matter that he had been right. In fact, the fact that he was right means he should have gone about seeking help even more delicately, more tactfully. If Daenerys had been a different kind of Queen she would have kept him prisoner, or worse for the utter lack of decorum he had shown.

And he had offered nothing in return. Did he not know how alliances work?

Her asking him to bend the knee was actually the very least she could have asked for given all he was expecting in return.

And he wouldn’t even do that. He had said, in front of all of them that it didn’t matter who sat on the Throne – that was how dire this threat was. Yet, he was unwilling to give up his own Throne to gain the military support he said he needed.

What else were he and Daenerys supposed to think but that he couldn’t be too serious, or that he was somehow trying to deceive her, when the threat obviously wasn’t serious enough for him to give up his crown, even though he claimed it was serious enough that she should give up her hope of getting hers?

He likes Jon, he does, very much.

But Jon doesn’t, perhaps never did, not since he joined the Watch, at least, have plans beyond making it till tomorrow. It’s understandable given the life he’s led – but it is certainly not going to make him a good ruler.

But Daenerys, he knew Daenerys well.

He knew Daenerys so well. He knew her passion, her desire and drive to change things for the benefit of all. To transform the world into something better than any of them could ever imagine.

But she could imagine it. She could see it. She was a visionary. And on top of all that, she could actually do it. She’d done it before in Essos. She had made the cities she had conquered better because she could envision a way without slavery when no one else could. And she acted on that when no one else would. And she had the power, or in the case of her earlier conquests, scrapped together and forged the power, to make these things happen with ingenuity in a way no one else did.

But Daenerys is gone now. And this is what they are left with.

**_Daenerys:_ **

For a while now she had been feeling the rocking of the ship, smelling the crisp, salty sea breeze, listening to her people talk and laugh around her. Proud and pleased of the ruse they had pulled off.

She was delighted. She finally, finally, felt safe. They had done it. They were away. They were going home.

Slowly, slowly, and then all of a sudden her body came to life. The Dothraki drink had worn off.

She opened her eyes and sat up abruptly.

Everyone in the room went silent and turned to look at her. She looked back at them, smiling. Smiling more than she had smiled in months.

She opened her arms and Missandei, and a number of Dothraki woman ran into them.

A huge cheer went up, so loud it was almost deafening.

They had done it.

Daenerys was laughing, and crying, and laughing, and hugging, hugging anyone, and everyone she could reach.

Finally, when the excited ruckus had died down somewhat, she cleared her throat, still smiling, and prepared to thank them all.

But before she could open her mouth she felt it.

A tumble. A sweet little tumble.

She gasped and her hands flew to her belly. She was staring at Missandei wide-eyed and they both had tears of joy in their eyes.

Her babe. Her babe finally had moved. Her babe had moved for the first time. As though it had been waiting. Waiting until it knew it was safe. Waiting until it was away from the treachery of Westeros.

Oh Gods, it was the loveliest feeling. 


	6. Chapter Five

**_Daenerys:_ **

The room was completely silent.

Dany was still staring at Missandei, her eyes wide and overflowing with tears of indescribable joy. Her hands laid over her belly lovingly, protectively.

She’d known she was with child, she had known. But it was not until this moment that the truth of it finally settled its way entirely into her mind.

She was not cursed. She was not.

For inside her rolled around a sweet, and alive, so very alive babe.

Suddenly Vitihi, darling, bossy Vitihi, one of the older Dothraki woman, and an experienced midwife was upon her.

“Is it the babe, Khaleesi? Did you feel the babe?”

Dany could do nothing but nod her head in assent, still crying and smiling.

In her usual, no nonsense style Vitihi moved her hands aside and began pushing and prodding gently at her belly. She hmmmm’d to herself, feeling all over the precious swell of Dany’s belly performing a thorough examination.

Dany began to grow nervous. What if something was wrong?

But then Vitihi stood straight again and looked at her with a satisfied smile.

“The babe is strong,” she announced to Dany and the room at large “Strong, and broad, and bold. And very active. It moves, moves everywhere. Moves with the power and the swiftness of the hooves of the Great Stallion.”

The room erupted into cheers again.

Dany pulled Vitihi into a hug thanking her over and over again.

“You will bear a sturdy babe Khaleesi” said Vitihi. “But we must watch you. You are as strong as the babe inside you, but you are much bigger than you should be at five moons. We must watch you, and the babe.”

Dany’s smile faltered. She hadn’t given it much thought, but now that it was mentioned she noticed that her belly was far more swollen than it had been at this time when she had been carrying Rhaego. She hadn’t even realized, it had been so long ago. But now she could see, and feel the truth of it.

Vitihi saw her expression and made to console her immediately.

“It is nothing to worry about, Khaleesi. A big, strong babe is a blessing. We just must make sure you are eating enough so that both you and the babe will thrive. There is nothing to fear. I swear this to you.”

This did assuage her worries. Vitihi was perhaps the most knowledgeable person regarding matters of child birth. She trusted her implicitly. And she knew she would never lie to her. If there really was something wrong then she would tell her the whole truth. Vitihi did not mess around with words or actions.

Dany clasped her hand tightly with her own and spoke out to the room “My friends,” she reached for Missandei’s hand with her other and held hers as she held Vitihi’s.

“My family. Thank you. Thank you so much for all that you have done for me, and for my child. I know that this was not what we expected when we set sail for the West, and I know that we have suffered many, too many losses of our own.”

She bowed her head then and took a moment of silence, of remembrance for all those who had fallen. Her people joined her in this. After a time, she spoke again.

“But we defeated a formidable enemy. We defeated death itself.”

More cheers erupted. The Dothraki were raising their arakhs and stamping their feet. The Unsullied beating their spears to the rhythm on the floor.

“You should all feel immense pride in what you have accomplished. I am so, so proud of you all. So honoured that you chose to follow me. To fight for me.”

“And I am so very, very grateful to you all for the parts you played this day to get us all out of Westeros, away from the traitor Varys and his schemes, safely. I owe each and every one of you my life, and the life of my child. I will be eternally thankful to you all for what you have done.”

“And by the Gods, did you do it well.” She looked mischievously first at Qhono, then Grey Worm, then Missandei. “Who knew what fantastic mummers you all were?”

Laughter erupted then. Loud and boisterous. She could hear people talking of how satisfying it had been to trick that duplicitous spider, of how entirely unawares they had taken him by their organsied and rapid departure. Celebrating their deception.

She felt warm and happy and safe. She laughed herself. His desperation by the ships had been most amusing, if not more than a little infuriating that he thought he could use her people to suit his own agenda, then discard them back to Essos.

“You were all fantastic,” she continued “But special mention must be given to Missandei whose screams of terror upon finding me probably woke my ancestors,” she smiled widely at Missandei. Then her eyes, and her smile softened “her tears seemed so real that they broke my heart to hear”, then her eyes glinted with equal parts pride, amusement, and fury “and her words to the spider were as sharp and cutting as any arakh.”

She turned to Missandei fully then “Thank you, my friend. For this. For everything.”

Missandei’s eyes were glowing with happiness, satisfaction, and vindication “It is I who should be thanking you, Daenerys. It felt wonderful to finally be able to speak to that spider as he deserves. To tell him what he should have already known. To put him in his place. I was more than glad to do it.”

She hugged Missandei then let go and reached for Qhono who came forward and took her hand.

“Blood of my blood, you too were remarkable. You organized the packing up of all of the Dothraki, and the tableau you created when you carried me to the ship will have left no doubt in anyone’s mind that I am dead and gone. You assured that. And you made sure they knew who they were really losing. Not the Queen of Westeros that they did not want, but the Khaleesi of all the Dothraki. A person I became without their petty help. You gave my death, fake though it was, meaning. You reminded them that I was more than what they saw me as. Thank you.” She embraced him strongly.

“That insect needed to know who he was trying to kill. The greatest Khal or Khaleesi there ever was. I am proud to have helped you Khaleesi.”

She nodded at him with just as much pride, and then she turned to Grey Worm.

“And Grey Worm,” he walked towards her then and she stared at him softly.

“What you did for me today cannot be repaid. You saved me, but more than that, you let the spider know who we really are. We are not like the people of Westeros who follow because it is their duty. We are bound to one another by love, by loyalty, by,” her voice cracked “by family.”

“When you said I was your family I…” a few tears made their way down her cheeks. “When you said I was your family I have never felt more loved, more protected, more at home. You are, all of you, my family, because we chose each other.”

Grey Worm looked overwhelmed. “And I had no idea you could be such a convincing liar, Grey Worm” she said cheekily, nudging him a little, trying to lighten his mood.

Grey Worm turned to her and took both her hands and looked intensely into her eyes.

“It was not hard to act sad that Daenerys Jelmazmo was dead. All I did was think what the world would be, where we would be, where I would be if there had never been a Daenerys Jelmazmo. You say we saved you, but you saved us first. You made us free men. You made us family. It is my honour to serve you. It is my honour to be Daenerys Jelmazmo’s family.”

Daenerys was crying fully now, and she could see that Missandei was too. She pulled Grey Worm into a hug first, then reached out and pulled Missandei in to join them. Qhono threw his much larger arms around the three of them, and the rest of the room broke out in to cheers again.

Eventually, the room settled once more and they all took seats at tables, on cushions, on the floor, on the bed, and began to sup together.

Dany was sitting next to Missandei who turned to her and asked “So what shall we do now, Daenerys? I know you said to set the ships sailing in the direction of Mereen…”

What should they do now? In truth, Dany was not confident.

If she had her way, she would live rather simply, unobtrusively, and raise her babe with all the love that she could give it.

But that was not who she was. She was Daenerys Stormborn. She could not live simply or unobtrusively. She had two large dragons, and two large armies.

Plus, that was not her destiny, could not be her future. She’d thought her destiny had been to rule Westeros. But she can see how foolish that was now. Now that she had been there.

In many ways, the people of Westeros, loathe as she was to agree with them, were right, she was too different, or to use their word, too foreign. And they were too stuck in their ways. Not matter how much Viserys (though his information could hardly have been relied upon), Ser Jorah, Ser Barristan, Tyrion, and Varys had told her about Westeros, no matter how much she had read about the country of her birth, she hadn’t been prepared for the reality of it. The harshness of it. She knows this is not an entirely fair assessment, for she had only really seen the North. But that experience had been scarring enough.

What had she been thinking taking her beloved people to a land where the class system was absolute, and anything foreign was distrusted and treated so abominably? What did she think would happen to them even if she did manage to gain back the Iron Throne? She hadn’t thought any of it through properly. She had been too set on her goal. But she could see now the carelessness, and gaps in her plans. She would have wanted to gift her people lands for their loyal service. Places at her side and in her Council. She knows now that Westeros would not have looked kindly on that. Indeed, they might have outright rebelled.

No, it seems that she did not belong in Westeros. Somehow, through some miracle, somewhere along the way during her journey to take back the Throne, she had found, but not at the time recognized, that she already was where she belonged. Not a place. She still did not know the place where she belonged. But she was with her people. With them she belonged. And none of them belonged in Westeros.

Westeros needed change. But they did not want it. They would fight against it.

But Essos – Essos not only needed to change, but the majority of the people actually wanted it. They were excited by the prospect of it. Of a new and better world. They were willing to accept it, and they were willing to fight for it. Not the masters, of course, but they _were_ the problem. She didn’t care that they didn’t want change. She didn’t care about them at all.

She thinks that maybe she no longer wants to be Queen. She thinks perhaps that that is not what she is meant to be. That she might not actually be very good at it.

She had left Yunkai and Astapor in dire straights. She had never set out to rule them – but she should have done better by them. She thinks maybe Daario was right, or at least, partially right. She was not meant to live out her days sitting in a throne room. So maybe she no longer wanted to be Queen. But one part of the title of Queen did appeal to her.

Protector. She could be the protector of the people. She could help free the people, all the people of Essos, then the people of the cities of Essos could choose their own leaders and she would, with her armies and her dragons, protect that freedom. That could be her purpose now.

She had left Meereen to choose their own leaders. She hopes they had. She trusts Daario, no matter his feelings towards how she left him she trusts the vow he made to her. She trusts that he, with the support of the Second Sons, would have carried out that command.

But knows for the sake of herself and her people that she must make sure that it is safe for them to return there.

She relays these plans to everyone. The plan to liberate Essos, and then protect that freedom. And she asks them what they think.

“You are all free people. This is what I plan to do now, but your choices are your own. All may join me. But none must. I only ask of you that you do what you want.”

All seem enthused by the plan. The Unsullied are unflinchingly loyal to her. To a man they agree immediately that they will take up the mantle of protecting freedom alongside their Mhysa with honour and pride.

The Dothraki too all wish to join her in this new goal. They are excited about it. Protecting an entire continent would mean roaming the lands again on their horses. She can see and hear that they are pleased with a return to that way of life. She understands that. She herself often gets nostalgic for the Great Grass Sea and the vast freedom it afforded.

“Then we will continue to sail towards Meereen.” She announces to the room at large. “If Daario has done what was asked of him and protected the city while it chose its own leaders then that will be the safest base for us to start from.”

He people nod their heads in agreement.

“But I have to be sure. I will not lead you once again into an unsafe situation like I did in the North of Westeros. So tomorrow, I will fly ahead on Drogon and take measure of Meereen, make certain that it is a safe place for us to eventually land. Then once I know, I will fly back and relay this information to all of you.”

Missandei interjects immediately, saying that it is not safe for her to do so alone. Especially if Daario had failed in the task he was set.

Daenerys, in all honesty, has faith that Daario would have succeeded. But she sees Missandei’s logic. There is still the possibility, small though it may be, that it could be unsafe. And she has her babe to think about.

“Missandei is right, as always” she says as she smiles fondly at her.

“Grey Worm, Qhono, would you two be willing to accompany me on Drogon to Meereen? We will land outside the gates and ask the leaders to come to us. If anything is amiss Drogon will be able to get us out of there immediately. Rhaegal, of course, will remain here to protect the ships.”

Both Qhono and Grey Worm agree, saying it would be their honour to join her. If either of them had any trepidation about riding a dragon they did not show it.

“I am coming too, Daenerys.” Says Missandei, and her eyes are resolute.

“No, Missandei, no. It was you who said it might be unsafe. I cannot put you in unnecessary danger like that.”

“Do you remember what you said to me, once you had bought me from Kraznys and set me free? You asked me if I wanted to go home. You told me that you would be taking me to war and that there was a chance of all kinds of dangers. I followed you then, and I will follow you now. No matter the danger. My place is by your side. If you are in danger, I want to be in danger with you. I cannot let you do this alone.”

Dany gripped Missandei’s hand so tightly that she worried that she was hurting her. A tear slipped from her eye as she said weakly, but lovingly “Oh, Missandei, you are absolutely the best of all of us.”

Missandei squeezed her hand back as Dany placed a kiss on her cheek and the matter was settled. Missandei would be coming too.

“I must come as well.” Vitihi’s authoritative voice sounded.

Dany opened her mouth to respond but was cut off.

“No disrespect, but no argument, Khaleesi. I will come to watch over the new khalakka or khalakki.”

Her tone allowed for no disagreement, so Dany nodded and thanked her. Truly she knew she was blessed to have someone so devoted to ensuring the well-being of her babe.

After they had all supped together, and many more hours of celebrating Dany retires to her room and prepares herself for bed.

As she lays there, both hands on her growing belly, relishing the sweet movement from within – Gods Vitihi was right, where just this morning there had been no movement, there was now a veritable stampede inside her – she cannot help but allow her thoughts to drift to Jon. Where he was now. What he was doing. What he was thinking. If he was thinking of her at all.

She knows that Jon loved her. In his own way. As much as Jon was capable of loving really.

Though it was difficult to tell. For he was not a demonstrative man. And on top of that, he was also a man of few words.

She had told him she loved him regularly. Showed him she loved him regularly. Mainly because she did love him. But also because she wanted to make him feel safe, and comfortable enough to be able to express his own love for her. She knows that Jon loved her. He just wasn’t very good at showing it.

She thinks it’s strange, the immense difference between them despite the many similarities.

They both grew up deprived of love.

Yes, she had had Viserys, and he had probably loved her a little, he did take care of her. But he cared for her more as what she meant, what she represented, than he did for her. She certainly had not felt loved by him the way she knows children feel loved by their parents. His love had had conditions, and had deteriorated over the years as the years became more and more unkind to them.

And Jon had had his sister Arya, and his brothers Robb and Bran, and Rickon who loved him. And she knew that Lord Stark had cared for him. He had an Uncle Benjen who sounded as though he loved him. But all of those people had had to be careful in their love all because of the looming presence of Lady Stark. So she knows he too certainly had not experienced an open kind of love growing up.

Yes, they both grew up deprived of love.

For her, the experience had made her free and open and expressive with her love when it was earned. It made her want to give, give, and give her love. It made her shower those she loved, those that loved her back with all the affection she could as willingly and as freely as she could.

For Jon, the experience had made him closed off and difficult to read. He held his love and his expressions of it tightly within himself. He was insecure in his love, as though it might be ripped away from him at any time. He was afraid, or unwilling to show or speak his love.

She had done everything in her power to make him feel her love. To make him feel secure and appreciated. She loved him. She did. She loved him. And she knew he, at least once, at least before, loved her. But maybe that wasn’t enough… Had she settled for his opaque brand of love simply because it was the best she had ever been granted?

But was it, was it enough? She also wanted, needed to be loved in the same way that she loved.

It had often been exhausting having to sift through every interaction, listen carefully for every unspoken word, peer closely to ascertain the meaning behind every look to be reassured that he loved her. Indeed, the first time they had been together she genuinely thought that Jon had only wanted to fuck her – like so many men before him had, that he merely desired her and it had nothing to do with feelings. Let alone feelings of love…

It was his eyes that had given him away. Love comes in at the eyes. When he pulled back and stared at her she had seen the love in them so clearly, so vividly, so unquestionably.

She wonders, if he had not done that, not pulled back, if she hadn’t looked deep enough into his eyes, if she too hadn’t pulled back at that exact moment, would she have ever realized that he loved her? For he had certainly never told her that he did. Not in words.

Gods she knows Jon deserves to be loved fully, after a life without love. But she had had a life without love too, and she thinks that she deserves to be loved just as fully as well. And Jon Snow, for all his wonderful qualities, was perhaps not the man to love her the way she wanted, needed, and deserved to be loved. Perhaps there was no such man. She had no plans or desires to find out. She would never love again. She knew that. She had loved Jon too completely, and given and given too much of herself until she had lost herself. And she would have relished in it, in that feeling of giving herself up entirely to him, if only it had been reciprocated in kind. She did not want to love anyone but Jon like that, and that was the only way she wanted to love someone. So she would never love another man again.

These thoughts did not stop her from loving Jon. He made her weak with love. But they did make her reconsider how good his love was for her. What good was love when you had to look so very, very hard to be sure it was there? When you could never be certain it was reciprocated because the other person wouldn’t, or couldn’t, show or tell you? What good was a love you couldn’t see or feel or touch? What good was a love he was ashamed of? What good was a love that he wanted to hide from the people most important to him? What good was a love that hurt her?

She didn’t expect him to choose her over his family. She’d made that very clear. She’d just wanted him to choose her too. Was she not his family too? Did he not love her too?

But despite all this, even if he didn’t love her. He did deserve to know about their babe. One day, once the chaos in Westeros had settled. Once the spider had failed. Once it became plaintively obvious how impossible it would be to place Jon on the throne. Once they realized that killing her would be pointless because their replacement Targaryen would not have the required support. Once she was set up safely and strongly and permanently in Essos. Once it became clear to whoever in Westeros that thought they would benefit from harming her that she had absolutely no intention of ever setting foot on that continent again. Then, then she could tell him.

She hoped it would be soon. Jon may never be able to love her the way that she needed and deserved to be loved, but he certainly deserved to know that he was to be a father.

She hoped he would be a good father. That he would be able to love their child freely and openly and completely and without shame in a way that he could never allow himself to love her. She believes he will make a good father because she knows how much the love of a father meant to him growing up. She hopes she is correct in her thinking that he will want to know about the babe.

She knows, to her chagrin, that Jon will likely suffer because of Varys. That he will be used. That Varys will try to use him the way Varys uses everyone.

She didn’t want Jon to be used as a pawn. Truly she didn’t. But a vindictive part of her couldn’t help but think that he was in a situation of his own making. If he had not told his sisters about his parentage then no one would know of his, tenuous, weak really, claim on the Throne. And so no one would be scheming to try and sit him on it.

She marveled, probably for the hundredth time at his idiotic, and complete lack of foresight. What did he think was going to happen once word of who his father was got out? That he could just say he didn’t want the Throne and that certain people would just shrug and accept that?

What an absolute fool. His first foolish mistake had been trusting his sisters with this secret. He’d seen how Sansa reacted to her. How she treated her. What she thought of her. Did he really think that that snake wouldn’t use his information to try and get rid of her?

She remembers the afternoon of their second day at Winterfell. They had just completed a War Council and Sansa had requested, demanded more accurately, that they both remain behind so that she may speak to them.

She was silent for a very long time. Eyeing them both up as though she was looking for some weakness she could expose and prod at.

Finally she spoke. Dany supposes she should have been surprised by what she said, how she said it. But after the icy and tension filled greetings yesterday she knew that this conversation was only a matter of time in coming.

“Why did you do it, Jon? Why did you bend the knee to her?”

Jon had looked at her cautiously and she had merely signaled slightly, with a nod of her head, that he should do as he would.

“It was my decision to make as the King in the North. It was my duty to do what I had to do to secure protection and survival for the people. And I…”

“And what of what I thought?” Sansa cut him off loudly.

“You didn’t even consult me. I am the Lady of Winterfell. This decision should have been mine as much as it was yours. If not more so. You’ve bought _her,_ and her, her, her _people_ into _my_ home. I told you to send an emissary. I knew this would happen. Lord Baelish said this would happen.”

Jon looked confused. But Dany knew exactly where this was about to go.

“He said that you would fall for her pretty face,” she gestured dismissively at Dany then as though that’s all she was – a pretty face and not a Queen who commanded two large dragons and two large armies. As though she were not, literally, their only hope of surviving what was to come. As though she were not even really in the room.

That she would not tolerate, she interrupted Sansa then, looking to Jon instead.

“You told me that the Throne doesn’t matter when the dead are coming for us all. I agreed with you else I would not be here. Did you not make the same arguments and points to your own people?”

Jon nodded at her and went to speak, but before he could Sansa started in again.

“I am not one of his people. I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“And Jon was the King of the North, Winterfell is in the North, he was _your_ King” she emphasized. “As he said, it was his decision to make.”

She could tell that Sansa did not like that.

“You know nothing about us, or how we conduct our affairs. You’re not a Northerner, you’re not even really from Westeros. Foreigners cannot understand our ways. I am the eldest trueborn Stark – I should be consulted on all matters related to the North.”

And that, she knew was where all of this hostility was coming from. Sansa did not want Daenerys to be Queen. This was an unassailable fact. Entirely obvious. But she also, clearly had not wanted her brother to be King. She had not wanted to answer to him. She believed that she should be in charge. That everyone should answer to her.

Dany sighed, she was tired of this already and they had not even been at Winterfell two whole days.

“Then what would you have done, had you come to Dragonstone in lieu of your brother? How would you have convinced me to believe in something that everyone thought naught but a myth for thousands of years?” 

“Jon has seen them, Jon has fought them, Jon has spent years helping people escape them, helping people fight them, trying to rally more people to fight them. You have done none of those things. So tell me, my Lady, what would you have done had you come in Jon’s place?”

Sansa sniffed imperiously.

“I never said I would have come,” she replied, clearly backed into a corner. She lifted her chin indignantly.

“Like I said, we should have sent an emissary. Not deign to send the King let alone the Lady of Winterfell herself. The North answers to no one.”

“Yet you wanted me, no, _needed_ me to answer your call for help. I would have been even less convinced by some emissary who knows next to nothing about the true enemy.”

“Northerners are honourable. You should have believed and trusted what the emissary told you regardless of who they were. A Northerner would not lie.”

Dany was tired of this. In fact, she hated this.

She knows by now, even with the little time that she has spent in the North that she will never gain the love or loyalty of the Northerners no matter how the War goes. Her best chance is to keep them as part of the Seven Kingdoms and leave them to their isolated ways.

Most of all she hates that she will, almost certainly, have to make ungrateful, hostile, juvenile Sansa Stark the Wardeness of the North. Since Bran Stark claimed he could no longer be Lord of anything Sansa was really the only option if she wanted to leave the North to some semblance of peace.

She took a deep breath and tried to make this spiteful girl see reason. Make her see why Jon had done what he had.

“You do not believe I will be a good Queen.” She said it as a statement, for that is what it was. She knew that Sansa thought that.

“I never…”

“No, perhaps you never said so in so many words, but that that is what you think is obvious. Why do you not think I will be a good Queen?”

Sansa glared at her.

“Because I do not know you. How can I know what kind of Queen you will be?”

“Exactly, you have no proof. How was I expected to believe such a fantastical tale from a stranger with no proof whatsoever? And as for your other point, you have your brother, a Northerner, telling you I would be a good Queen. You said a Northerner would not lie. Surely you trust in your brother, who is also a Northerner, who was also your King. Surely you should therefore believe him.”

Sansa appeared to have no response to that so she went on the attack.

“Your father killed my uncle and grandfather. Why should I believe you would be any better than him? That you would be a good Queen when that is what the last Targaryen ruler did to the North. To my family.”

“They were also Jon’s uncle and grandfather. He believes I would be a better ruler. He believes I will be better than him.”

“They were not Jon’s trueborn uncle and grandfather. It is not the same.” Sansa is getting slightly hysterical now.

Dany cannot believe she would say that in front of Jon. She looks to Jon and sees that he is looking down, that he looks hurt, sad. She is furious on his behalf.

“They were Jon’s family as much as they were yours,” she begins lowly and dangerously, “and…”

“You just did what all women like you do and used your feminine wiles to beguile and seduce him,“ Sansa cut her off rudely, “and he just did what all foolish men do and fell for it and gave you everything you wanted. You do not deserve the North. You haven’t fought for it like we have. It’s ours. We fought for it.”

Dany had been waiting for that. But for Jon that seemed to have done it. He had taken Sansa’s insults about himself, but it seemed he would not tolerate her slinging them at her.

“Enough, Sansa. You will not disrespect the Queen like that. I chose Queen Daenerys because I saw the kind of Queen she would be. The good she would do for all of us. And she is here, right now, fighting for the North. Leave it alone Sansa. I made my choice, as was my right, and responsibility as King.”

Sansa would not be rebuked. She puffed herself up further, filled with a sense of self-righteousness that would have been comical were it not so misguided and therefore terrifying and dangerous.

“The North will not stand for this.” She almost shouted. “We have fought too hard to be told what to do by, to bow to outsiders ever again. Perhaps you have forgotten that, Jon? You were chosen as our King, because the people of the North respected you. You can just as easily be unchosen, especially now that you are losing their respect due to your obvious preference for foreigners. Did you learn nothing from what happened to Robb?”

Jon sighed, looking desperately sad.

“Robb broke a promise, he went back on his word. I’m not saying he deserved what happened to him, he was my brother and I loved him. But this is an entirely different situation.”

“You went back on your word. You gave up the North.” Sansa was like a hound with a bone. She would not let this go.

“I never gave my word that I would not concede the North if it was necessary. The only promise I made was to protect the North. And Robb’s wife being foreign was not what angered people Sansa, that’s not what got him killed. It was that he broke his vow. And, while I’m sure she was a wonderful woman if she was worthy of our brother’s love, she did not bring things to the war that were needed. Not like Queen Daenerys is. The situations are not at all comparable.”

Jon’s voice was dark and full of fury.

“I mean it Sansa, you will not disrespect the Queen the way you have been.”

“She’s not the Queen yet. Not in truth. She does not sit on the Iron Throne.”

“She hasn’t taken the Iron Throne because she came here instead to save us. To save the North.” Jon was getting more and more frustrated. More and more angry.

“And so in exchange she gets the North?”

“I bent the knee to her Sansa, she is our Queen.”

“She may be your Queen, but I did not bend the knee to her.”

“That is because it was not yours to bend. I was the King, it was my responsibility to make the decision on behalf of the North. Do you think Torrhen Stark’s sister got a say when he bent the knee to Aegon the Conqueror?”

She looked at him scathingly, “Torrhen was a _Stark_.” She spat the last word caustically, glared at them both, then stormed from the room.

Jon looked as though he’d been punched. She couldn’t bear seeing him that way.

She walked over to him slowly, carefully, cautious of the fact that he might need space right now. But when she held out her arms he flung himself into them and clung on tightly.

They stayed there for a long time, not saying a word, with her winding her fingers through his curls to soothe and comfort him.

Finally he pulled back. “She hates me” he said.

She shook her head at him and smiled sadly. “She doesn’t hate you, Jon. You’re her brother. She loves you. She could never hate you. She hates me, but it is easier, safer maybe to attack you instead of me. Though why she thinks that it is safe to attack you in front of me I do not know. Were she not your sister I would have sent her to the dungeon for the way she spoke to you.”

“Everything is such a mess here, Dany” he said sadly.

“I thought people would understand, I thought they would come together. My father always said you find your true friends on the battlefield.”

Dany tried to smile at him, “Well, you never know,” she said trying to keep her voice light. “We haven’t gone into battle yet, maybe everything will be different after we have.”

She didn’t believe it, and she knew that Jon knew she didn’t believe it. She could tell he didn’t believe it either. How could they?

“I hate the way she spoke to you. Always remember what I said to you last night, Jon. You are so much more than your name. You are the best man there is.” She kissed him intensely, and he returned it in kind.

“Please, my love, please try not to take what she said upon yourself. It has nothing to do with you. It is me she hates. It is me she wants gone.”

Jon hadn’t responded, but she knew he saw the truth in what she’d said that day.

Sansa really was a horrible, spiteful, nasty woman. And that is one of the many things that truly frustrated her. That made no sense to her.

If Sansa really thought her a monster, then why would she betray Jon? Why would she personally see to it to try and make Jon’s secret known?

Jon’s truth was a threat to her. If Sansa thought that she was as terrible person as she knows she does, then she surely must have considered the possibility that she would kill Jon to remove the threat to herself. Not that she would, of course, but Sansa seemed to think her capable of it. Why would she put her own brother’s life at risk like that?

Dany loathed Sansa Stark with every fiber of her being.

But it was thoughts like these that kept her fears for Jon at bay.

While she knew that Jon may be used as a pawn, she was not afraid for him. For she remembered that arrogant, confidant man who had strode into her Throne Room at Dragonstone and demanded so much from her. She remembered the man who had told her he did not need her permission, he was a King. She remembered his determination, and tenacity.

She remembered the man who had stood up to his sister.

Even if he had later capitulated on a lot of those things. Even if he’d lost his way when they got to Winterfell. She knew that the man she first met was the man Jon truly was. And she knew he would not allow himself to be used for long. She knew he was no fool. She knew he would take control of himself and the situation in that aggravating, and annoyingly attractive way he did. She knew he would be fine.

**_Jon:_ **

Jon was once again lying on his bed at Dragonstone. He was shattered, exhausted, he felt as though he had been beaten down by a thousand men. But he could not sleep.

His rage and his grief were warring with one another. One side would win out, then the other.

He felt resigned. As though he did not exist. As though his life was not his own anymore.

No, now that he had a different name his life belonged to everyone. Everyone but him.

He hated how everyone’s first thought upon learning about his parentage was his claim to the Throne. Sam, Sansa, Tyrion, Varys.

It had been Dany’s first thought too. And that had hurt him deeply at a time when he was already reeling. It had been hard enough to gather up the courage to tell her that she, the one person in this world that he most wanted to protect, could be in danger simply because he was alive. How could he do that to her?

And then she had reacted the way she had. But then again, how had he really expected her to react? She had been through so much to get to the point she was at now. To get to Westeros.

His first thoughts had been what the truth had meant for him, how could he blame her that her first thoughts had been what the truth had meant for her?

He remembers how she had come and apologised to him later. He had seen how truly, deeply she had regretted the way she had reacted.

It had been the evening after the night of the victory feast. The evening after they had fought, the evening after he had pushed her away because he couldn’t stand what his existence was doing to her. Though she probably thought he was rejecting her.

It was late, very late, and she had knocked on his door quietly, like she had the last time.

He opened it and gestured for her to enter, dreading what was about to come. He didn’t want a repeat of last night. He wanted everything to go back to the way it was. Before they both knew this devastating truth.

She walked in slowly with her eyes lowered. She stayed far away from him.

This made him sad, he hated that he had made her feel insecure, unwanted. But he didn’t know how to act. He knew she would not approach him again like she had last night. Not after the way he had pushed her from him. She had more dignity than that.

A silence that felt like it stretched an age followed, until eventually, she spoke.

“I’d like to apologise to you Jon, if you’ll let me.” She said softly. She sounded so very sad, and ashamed. He was confused. If anyone should be feeling those feelings it should be him.

He sighed deeply, “Dany, if this is about last night I…”

“No, no, it’s not about last night.” She took a choking little breath and sounded so very small, and afraid “I know that you’re determined on all of that. No matter what will come of it.” She shuddered

“I know I have to respect your feelings about it, especially because I was so callous with your feelings before. Which is what I would like to apologise for, and explain as well, please, if you’ll let me”

She was still looking down, and he was still confused.

“What are you talking about, Dany?” In his confusion his question came off harsher than he’d intended, and she’d flinched a little.

“I’m talking about the way I reacted when you told me about your parents.”

Oh. Oh. That.

Now he was feeling slightly harsh. Her reaction had hurt.

“I see, and how exactly do you intend to justify that, Dany. Do you know how hard it was for me to tell you that? And then to have you react the way you did…”

She speaks slowly, sedately, “You’ve never reacted without thinking? Never reacted in a way that you later came to regret?”

She chances a look up at him but he keeps his face as blank as he can. He wants to know why the one person he thought he could turn to, the one person who he thought truly cared for him, would react like that. Though he cannot deny that he has, on more than one, indeed on many occasions, reacted without thinking first.

“Well,” her voice is still impossibly small, and she is looking down again, “that is what I did that night. I reacted without thinking, well, without thinking of you and how you would be feeling. And I regret it. And I am sorry.”

He softens his voice some, he can see that she is really struggling with this, that she is truly upset that she hurt him, and he does, he does very much want to know why. “That still doesn’t explain why you did it. You said you wanted to explain, so explain. Do you not understand what learning that truth meant for me? Did to me?”

She nods slowly then lifts her eyes to look at him. They are wide, and wet, and impossibly sad.

“I do, at least I think I do. Because it meant the same thing for me. It did the same thing to me.”

He looks at her skeptically, but allows her to continue.

“I know it’s more complicated than just this, but please, tell me truly, what upset you more - that Lord Stark wasn’t your true father? Or that he lied to you your whole life?”

He’s unsure where this is going, but he answers her anyway.

“That he lied to me.”

She nods again, almost to herself.

“Yes,” she says quietly, “Yes, I thought so. And that, that part of it I do understand. Lord Stark’s lie shaped your entire life. But it shaped mine too. Just the way Viserys’ lies shaped my entire life. He told me our father was a good King. That the people loved him. That they deeply mourned his passing. He constantly stressed the importance of our being the last Targaryens. How it was our duty to restore our name and our House. To take back the Throne that was stolen from us.”

“But my father wasn’t a good king. And we weren’t the last Targaryens. Had I known these two things sooner my entire life would be different. Perhaps I would still have sailed for Westeros. But perhaps I wouldn’t. Perhaps I would have remained in Essos breaking chains and fighting slavers.”

“Perhaps I might have even just joined the Dosh Khaleen once Drogo died and never tried to hatch my children. Or perhaps I would have left but rested. Perhaps I would have planted trees and watched them grow. Perhaps I would be living in a house with a red door, a simple life as a simple woman with a simple man who loved me for who I was, not what I was because I would not be any of the things I am now. I never would have felt compelled to become all the things that I became. The things I only became because I was living the duty those lies enforced, striving to achieve that one goal.”

He couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t imagine Dany being anyone but Dany. But to hear her tell it, and he knew she wouldn’t lie to him, she would have been entirely content to be that someone else. To have just been anybody. To have been nobody. To have just lived a simple life.

He understands that she has dealt with this burden her entire life, but he doesn’t see what that has to do with who his true parents are.

“But you were not the one who had their entire identity ripped away from them. You are still the person you were born as.”

She huffs quietly to herself, clearly frustrated at him that he is not getting it.

“We’re more alike than I think you care to acknowledge. Both of our lives were a lie. That lie. The lie your uncle told you. You thought you were a bastard, I thought I was the very last of my House. That it was my duty, not something I wanted, but my duty, to restore it’s good name in the best way I knew how.”

“We, both of us, built our identity around those falsehoods. All of our choices, all of our insecurities, our actions were the result of that lie that we thought to be true. So yes, yes Jon. I understand that learning the truth turned your world upside down. That it made you feel like you no longer knew who you were. That it made you question your very identity. That it made you feel that everything you’d done, and everything you’d suffered had been either for nothing, or a because of a lie. Do you know why I understand that? Because learning your truth did the same for me. Can you not see that? How can you not see that?”

Her voice is low and desperate. She is trying so hard to make him understand. And now he does. He does and he wonders why he hadn’t realized it sooner.

Yes, this lie had been about him. But he wasn’t the only person effected by it. A world away it had effected the person that Dany had had to become as well. When he learned his life was a lie, she learned that hers was too.

He realizes that he’d lost his identity, yes. But he’d also gained one. Dany had simply lost hers.

But he would not take her identity from her. That is why he cannot look at her now, even less than he could last night. Perhaps some part of him had known this all along, he’d known his truth had the potential to take something from her, it was why he had begun to pull even further away from her. But he hadn’t realized how much it was taking from her. He thought this was just about the Throne. But it was about the way she had lived her entire life.

“I know that it is worse for you,” she continues, and he wishes she would pause for a moment because he is still processing. “Because you were the one who was lied to by someone you trusted, someone you loved. And I am sorry, so sorry that happened to you.”

He is listening but still processing. He thinks about Sansa and Arya. About how they are always saying that they all have to stick together because they are the last of the Starks. How important it was to keep the Stark name alive. And Dany had lived so much of her life feeling the same, but carrying that burden alone.

“I am sorry that happened to you. But at the same time, I am angry as well. It sounds childish, I know, but I am angry Lord Stark never told you, never told anyone. He kept you safe. I know, and I know it was necessary to keep you safe. And for that I will be forever thankful.”

He can hear in her voice how upset she is getting, how this means so much more to her than just a claim to a Throne. He had no way of knowing, though knowing her like he does he thinks he did her a disservice by not considering it, but even if he had no way of knowing he feels horrible that he thought Dany, Dany who had never once been selfish when it came to him, would have only cared about the Throne.

“But, but, he also kept you from me. I would never wish the way I grew up on anyone, least of all you. But I could have known you. I could have known I had other family. And you could have known that part of yourself. We could have protected each other. We could have always been there for each other. That was taken from us. It kept you alive, and through some combination of luck and fate I was kept alive too. But it all could have been so different. And I mourn what could have been. And so yes, as irrational, and childish, and selfish, and impossible as it is I feel angry that it wasn’t that way.”

“I know Lady Catelyn was horrible to you, just as Viserys was horrible to me, though in a different way, and for different reasons. But you are my family, and I would have loved and cherished you always. I would have appreciated you. But I never got that opportunity…” she hiccups, and it’s then he realizes that she is weeping steadily.

He doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t realized how deeply she had thought about all this. How deeply it had effected her.

She takes a deep breath and calms herself slightly. Finally looks into his eyes, and they are shining with that unequivocal love she feels for him. That high esteem she holds him in.

“I told you before that you were more than your name. And you are. You still are. It doesn’t matter what your name is. You are still you. Whether it is because of, or in spite of that name, you are still you.”

“And I am sorry, Jon. So sorry about the way I made you feel. That my first reaction was harsh, and selfish. I was shocked, and I was afraid. But those are not excuses. Please believe me when I tell you I am truly sorry.”

His heart hurts. This is so much bigger than he thought it would be. So much deeper, so much more meaningful. He hadn’t realized.

He had been cursing Dany for reacting selfishly, for only thinking about herself. When he had been doing the exact same thing. Yes, he was the one who was lied to. But he was not the only one who was effected.

“I understand, Dany,” he says quietly, but resolutely. “I understand, and I forgive you.”

She smiles a little then, but it is a wounded, broken thing. Nothing like the beaming smiles she used to grace him with.

“Thank you for listening, Jon. Thank you for understanding. And thank you for forgiving me, even if I don’t really deserve it.”

He’s about to formulate a reply when she whispers a quick “Goodnight, Jon”, and turns and walks out the door. The door she’d only stepped a few feet away from. She’d been so far away from him the entire conversation.

Everything was so different now. He wanted to go back.

He wanted to go back now too. Back to the ship, before they’d even docked in White Harbour. He wanted to do everything differently.

Yes, Dany’s first thought had been of the Throne. But it had not been her only thought. Not by a long shot. And at least she had not tried to use him as a pawn, the way Sam had, the way Sansa had, the way Varys was doing now.

And their actions had not really surprised him. Yet Dany’s had? Why had he expected so much more from Dany than he did from everyone else? Why had he expected her to be completely and entirely selfless about the situation? Especially when the news effected her just as much as it effected him. Just because she loved him? Sam loved him, or so he thought. Sansa loved him, or so he thought. Yet both of them had had the same initial reaction – they had thought about his claim, and how it should be used to undermine Dany. They had not thought about him or how he felt at all. Dany had.

And he hadn’t wanted to hurt Dany so he’d pulled away from her. And Dany had died anyway, possibly, probably due to the fact that he’d trusted the wrong people. Dany had died thinking he hadn’t loved her. That he hadn’t chosen her. He hated everything. But none so much as he hated himself.

He remembered all her words. All the things Dany had said about him being a King, being himself. He won’t take the Throne he didn’t even want in Dany’s name. But the least he could do for her was be the man that she had believed him to be, that she had thought he was right up until her very end.

He thought of her words;

_“Being a King is not having a title”_

_“Being a King is in your actions. And you, Jon Snow, are wholly, utterly, and unequivocally, a King.”_

_“You are so much more than your name, Jon.”_

_“You are the best man I have ever known.”_

He thought of a child’s wooden sword with _‘Jon Snow, King in the North’_ written upon it.

He’d told his sisters because he thought they deserved to know. And then Sansa, and now Varys wanted to make him King. He thought his claim was tenuous at best.

Varys seemed confident he could pull this off. That he could rally Westeros to Jon’s side. Jon was much more doubtful of this. But he could at least use this opportunity to put the North to rights about Dany, about all of it. He could use this opportunity to get the respect he had earned. To be the man Dany thought he was. He would not put up with them walking all over him any longer.

By backing him into a corner they had done the same to themselves. If they thought him the true King then they would have to treat him as such.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who commented on the last chapter. You guys are amazing, and your thoughts, opinions, and words always inspire me to keep writing when I am so not in the mood.
> 
> So, thank you :)

**_Daenerys:_ **

Dany wakes up to the feel of a gentle bump against her belly smiling and feeling well rested. She and her babe had escaped with their lives. Her people were on their way home. And she had a plan for the future.

Yes, there were still some things to work out. But that was what today was for.

MIssandei came into the room and smiled at the broad smile on Dany’s face.

“You appear to be in a good mood this morning, Daenerys.”

“I am. Worried, a little perhaps, it’s as you said, the situation in Meereen might not be what we want or expect, but I’m excited to get on with it. To find out. To move on to this new phase in all of our lives. I am so, so pleased that everyone has decided to join me.”

Missandei pulled her out of bed and walked with her over to the small vanity in the ships cabin and began brushing her hair.

“Of course we are with you. What you want to do is dear to the hearts of all the Unsullied. They want for everyone what you gave to them. And it’s also ambitious, and dangerous, you know the Dothraki would never turn down a challenge like that.” Missandei smirked.

Dany smirked back at her through the mirror, meeting her eyes. “You always understand everything from every angle Missandei. I’m so, so sorry that I did not listen to you as much when we were in Westeros. I thought I needed Tyrion and Varys’ expertise, they knew the land and its people after all. But people are people everywhere, and you can always determine their motivations. I promise I will always listen to you from now on” she said, reaching back to grasp Missandei’s hand warmly.

“Can you forgive me my stupidity in listening to a foul spider over a beautiful butterfly?”

Missandei giggled, but then looked at her seriously. “There is nothing to forgive, Daenerys. It was logical to take their counsel in a foreign land. And you stopped listening to him… perhaps not as soon as you should have…” Missandei looked in to Dany’s eyes to see if she had offended her, but Dany was looking back with nothing but keen interest.

“But you stopped, and now here we all are. Safe. And with a new, and, if I may say so, I believe, better purpose. And a purpose I think you will enjoy more than those petty games the Westerners play and call politics.”

Dany laughed heartily “They do treat it like a game. When it is the farthest thing from one. Do you know, on more than one occasion, I heard more than one person refer to it as the game of thrones?” She announced the last part mock-seriously.

“What does that even mean?” she went on, “The game of thrones? As though they can play with people’s very lives, the lives of one another and call it sport, and not something that should be resolved, not played, for the betterment of all the people.”

She sighed, “I thought I wanted to rule there. To take back my family’s Throne. To be their Queen. But I do not enjoy malicious games. People have played games with my life enough. And I have had enough. And I will not play with other people’s lives, and call it politics as they do. They make enemies for themselves out of one another like it is a game. At least in Essos the enemy is clear. And there are no games. We are not returning to play. We are returning to liberate, to build, to make the world as good as we can for all those who live in it.”

Missandei was smiling at her fondly.

“What?” Dany asked, slightly embarrassed.

“You are starting to sound like yourself again, Daenerys. It is good. It is wonderful. I am so happy for you, and for all of us.”

Tears prickled slightly at Dany’s eyes.

“Thank you, my friend. I’m starting to feel like myself again. It is good. I think. At least, I hope it is.”

“I know it is.” Said Missandei decisively.

Once they had readied themselves for the day, and broken their fast they set out above deck and met up with Grey Worm, Qhono and Vitihi who each had a pack containing provisions for their journey.

Dany had instructed them all to dress for the heat of Meereen, but to wear a warm cape, or coat as well, for it got cold flying high up in the air. She was pleased to see that they had all listened to her.

She herself felt magnificent and free to be once again wearing an Essosi style gown. No more dull colours, and sharp lines, and constricting fabrics like she had donned in Westeros.

No, the pale gold, and white dress she wore now flowed freely and delicately over her body. Her arms were bare, as was her back. Her sandals, no more heavy boots for her, were sturdy, but dainty. And best of all, she and the babe could breathe easily, no longer constricted within the confines of Westerosi garb. She flung a darker gold cape around her shoulders and held it together with a simple pin.

She missed her brooch, her dragon brooch. The one Jon had loved, if the amount of times she had caught him staring at it was any indication. Though, that probably had more to do with where the brooch was located on her body, she thought wickedly as she tried to ignore a pang of deep longing for him.

She missed it because of what Jon had done to it. Done to it for her. She had cried when she’d found it in her room at Winterfell. Whole again, though still a little worse for wear. But that had only added to how much she adored it. For she knew that Jon had been the one to put in the time, and the effort to attempt to mend it for her. He may as well have been a world away for how distant he was acting towards her at that time. But with that one gesture, he had shown her that he still cared about her feelings. Even if he no longer cared the same way as he once did about her.

She hadn’t wanted to leave it behind. She’d wanted a piece of Jon with her. A little something to remind herself that he once cared about her. But she had wanted Jon to know his effort was appreciated, for she had never had the time, or the chance to tell him so.

Besides, she did have a piece of Jon with her anyway, and she always would. Their babe was, right this minute, making its presence known dancing along the side of her belly. Yes, she would always have a piece of Jon. The least she could do was try to let him know that what he had done for her had meant the world to her. If he even finds it, that is. 

Once she sees that all of the party are ready to depart, Dany steps to the side of the ship and calls her children down to her from the skies.

They sweep low, crowing and chattering to her and to one another. She had felt how pleased they had been with their own performance yesterday. She herself had been beyond impressed and had told them so, to which they had chirruped proudly. Their mournful roars, and cries and nearly split her heart in two to hear. But she had to admit, it had really helped to sell the notion that she was dead and gone.

She had worried, for so long, what would become of her children when she was gone. But now, now with her babe safe and alive in her belly, that fear was alleviated. She didn’t know how, but she could just somehow tell that her child would bond with its dragon siblings, would love and care for them, would one day ride them as she does now.

Drogon and Rhaegal it seemed, could sense a similar kind of kinship and camaraderie, for as soon as they answered her call they were both taking it in turns to be either receiving her loving strokes to their warm scales, or pushing their noses into her stomach and gently blowing hot air against it as though they were trying to warm, or comfort the babe.

The babe seemed to like this very much, reacting excitedly, moving even more, as though they could sense the protection of their siblings.

Dany spoke rapidly to them both in Valyrian. Telling them that she and Drogon would be flying onwards to Meereen with Missandei, Grey Worm, Qhono, and Vitihi, while Rhaegal would be left with the very important job of protecting the ships filled with his mother’s people.

Both seemed pleased with their assignments, and so, it was time to head off.

She mounted Drogon first, he remained preternaturally still, and she could sense, through their bond, that he was thinking of his sibling, of keeping it safe, of keeping mother safe so she could keep his sibling safe. She felt such a burst of love for her largest child, and he pushed just as strong a burst back at her.

Dany called out clear instructions on what to do as first Missandei, then Grey Worm, then Vitihi, then Qhono mounted Drogon – who was exceptionally, and uncharacteristically patient throughout the whole ordeal.

Once they were settled: Missandei safely between her and Grey Worm, and Vitihi safely between Grey Worm and Qhono, Dany said softly to Drogon “Sōvēs”.

He roared happily, beat his huge wings a few times and then they were off. Soaring through the air. Climbing higher and higher until they levelled out. Dany glanced back to see how her companions were handling it. Missandei’s eyes were wide, but she did not look afraid. Grey Worm looked afraid, but not for himself, he was clutching Missandei to him tightly and whispering what Dany assumed to be questions about her well-being and sense of safety in her ear. Behind them Vitihi and Qhono looked ecstatic, thrilled. For the Dothraki this was riding in a way that they had never done before and they were both fully immersed in the experience. She could hear them yelling “Valahd. Valahd” enthusiastically.

Dany did not think her smile could get any wider as she shared this, her favourite, most beloved activity, with people that she cared so deeply for.

They flew for some hours. Huddling closer together as the wind picked up some, and then, eventually, Dany could see that they were nearing Meereen.

She knew that there would be no hiding their approach or arrival. Drogon announced himself wherever he went. She could only hope that she was right in trusting Daario. That he had kept the city safe while it chose its own leaders and that he, and the Second Sons were continuing to protect their freedom.

Daenerys deftly lands Drogon outside the gates to Meereen, and they all dismount. Grey Worm worrying over Missandei, Missandei giggling and telling him she is absolutely fine. Qhono and Vitihi excitedly comparing the incomparable experience to riding horses. Finally, they all assemble in a line and look to one another, mostly to her, wondering what to do now.

“We wait,” says Dany far more strongly than she feels. “We do not know if we are welcome here. So, we wait.”

There is nothing but silence for a time. It becomes more unnerving the longer it stretches out. Why isn’t anything happening?

They are all debating whether to send someone in to ask to talk to the leaders. Who should go. All offering. None wanting the others harmed, when, suddenly, the gates are thrown open and two hundred or so men come marching through them.

Their march is a little haphazard, nothing like the precision of the Unsullied, or the power of the approaching horde of Dothraki. But it has purpose and a certain unity. They are definitely not to be trifled with or underestimated.

Dany does not recognise them. And this worries her. They are not dressed in the characteristic clothing of the Second Sons. Indeed, they are all wearing the same kind of armour. It is a dark brown, perhaps black leather with an insignia on the front. From this far back she cannot make out what it is.

She begins to panic, to fear that they have arrived in an unsafe situation. That Daario had failed, or worse, betrayed her. That the city had fallen back into chains.

The men are all armed with swords or spears. They stop a hundred or so feet away from them – still too far to make out who they are, or what their intentions are.

Dany’s fear is mounting. Would there be no peace or safety for her anywhere? Protectively she places her hands over her belly. She despises how useless she is in these situations. She has no combat skills, no way of protecting herself, or her child. In this, she has always had to rely on others.

Grey Worm and Qhono step definitively in front of her, Missandei and Vitihi, and stand tall, proud, and threatening. Her heart clenches with warmth that, though she cannot protect herself, she has people loyal to her, people who love her and want to protect her. But she wants no harm to come to them either.

“If this even starts to look like it is going bad, get back atop Drogon immediately.” She whispers to them. She sees that they want to fight, but they both nod slightly indicting that they heard her and would follow her directions.

One of the armed men steps forward alone then. He walks quickly and quietly towards them and stops thirty or so feet away. Dany cannot see much from her place behind Qhono and Grey Worm, but she does see the man draw his sword. She sucks in a terrified little breath and whispers, “now, we must…”

But before she can finish her thought the man is kneeling before them, his sword outstretched in both arms. He bows his head and lays his sword on the ground.

“Myhsa,” he says “Your Grace, you have returned to us. It is my honour, my great pride to be the one to receive you back into Meereen. We all welcome you back with much joy.”

His words sound heartfelt, and his actions seem sincere. But the stakes are so high.

Dany is still suspicious. This could be a trick. A trick devised by the masters if they have indeed retaken the city. She will not take any chances.

She steps past Grey Worm and Qhono much to the protestations of them both, as well as Missandei and Vitihi.

“I do not know you. How do I know this is not a trick? That you are not here to lure us in and kill us all?”

The man looks sad at this, she can tell, even with his head still bowed. But she cannot afford to be fooled. Her life, her child’s life, and the lives of all of her people rely on an absolute guarantee of safety.

“Where is Daario Naharis? What have you done to him? Did he leave?” She is trying desperately to keep her voice from wobbling. To speak with a calm, and an authority that she does not feel in this unknown situation.

The man remains kneeling, his sword still on the ground. He seems determined to appear as unthreatening as possible.

“I understand your suspicions, Your Grace. I am sorry we have startled you. We, saw you flying overhead and we, so many of us just wanted to meet you. To greet you. To welcome you home.”

“Petrak” he calls out, though he remains unmoving from his kneeling position.

Another one of the soldiers, Petrak, she presumes, in the lines behind him steps forward only slightly.

“Go and get Captain Naharis. Tell him Queen Daenerys has returned to us, and that she would speak to him immediately.”

The man, Petrak, turns and marches quickly back within the city gates.

A tense silence follows. Dany wants to know more but has no idea how much any information that she gleans from these strangers can be trusted. Neither the man kneeling, nor any of his comrades makes any move against her or her people, which she could consider a good sign. But in the end, an excess of caution wins out. She will wait for Daario.

Minutes tick by. Perhaps a quarter hour or so until she sees more movement coming towards them.

Around twenty people step outside the gates of Meereen. Men and women both, they all look happy, healthy, and excited. She spots Daario immediately amongst them and a very small part of the tension inside her eases.

“Your Grace” Daario exclaims throwing his arms into the air as though in celebration. “You have come back.”

Dany doesn’t move or speak, and Daario looks around, and must sense her trepidation for he continues walking towards her confidently, his company following him but stopping next to the man who remains kneeling.

Daario does no such thing and walks right up to her.

“What happened in the West?”

“It is a long story, I’m afraid Daario. One which will take a bit of telling. The most important part is that I will never set foot on that continent again. I will tell you it all, I promise. But perhaps you could start by telling me what is going on here?”

Daario nods solemnly, indicating that he understands that she has had something of an arduous time since he last saw her, but then he smiles at her openly.

“You have nothing to fear here, Daenerys. I did just as you commanded. We have held the city. There were troubles, and trials early on, but we held it, and the people chose their own leaders just as you wanted.”

“Will you allow me to introduce them?” He gestures behind him to indicate the group of twenty people who had accompanied him.

This news thrills her, really it does. But she must ask one more time. She must be sure.

“Are we truly safe here, Daario? That is what I need to know before anything else.”

“On my word, as I swore it to you, you are all safe here. None in Meereen wish to hurt you. I’m sorry for the rather intense welcome,” he chuckles. “But I can assure you, these people all just wanted to see Daenerys Stormborn with their own eyes. They mean you no harm. The opposite in fact. They would all protect you with their lives.”

She looks over at the crowd. She does trust Daario. And they still have Drogon if things were to suddenly turn against them.

“All right,” she says with finality. “Please, do introduce me.”

Daario turns and gestures to the assembly of twenty and they come forwards in something of an eager rush.

“Daenerys Targaryen, please allow me to introduce you to the Chosen Leaders of Free Meereen.”

Each person is jubilant and excited to meet her. Names and stories tumble over one another as they all speak at once, reaching out to her, grasping her hand, touching her cloak. She can barely hear one person over the next. Cannot grasp their names or their stories. But she supposes they will have plenty of time for that. It is overwhelming, but lovely. So lovely to feel their love.

They all express their gratitude for what she has done, their joy in meeting her in person. She really does try but she cannot catch any individual name, or sentence, just a flood of feeling and emotion. All of it safe and loving. All of it warm and welcoming.

She is smiling when it is all over. Smiling widely and freely. As are Missandei, Grey Worm, Vitihi, and Qhono.

“Do you feel better now?” Daario asks a little smugly.

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, acknowledging his tone, and nods, “I am most grateful to you Daario Naharis. You have done very well indeed.”

“Such flattery,” he smiles. “And, if I’m not mistaken, then no matter what did happen in the West, at the very least you are soon to be as happy as I am.”

“What do you…” she begins, but then she sees him looking at her protruding belly meaningfully.

“I, yes, I’m…”

“I’m so happy for you Daenerys. You wanted many things, but this perhaps most of all. I thought you mad for it, but now I know why.”

She looks at him quizzically now.

“Will you do me the honour of allowing me to introduce you to two very special people?”

Dany is beyond confused now. But she is still reeling from all the happiness that had just been expressed that she nods at him, smiling.

Daario grins back at her and stretches his arm out wide, a beautiful young woman, about the same age as herself, with long, glossy dark brown hair, and bright sun-kissed skin, steps into his arm and leans against him tenderly.

“Daenerys Targaryen, it is my great pleasure to introduce you to my wife, Marva.”

Dany would be lying to herself if she said she was not slightly taken aback. Of all the men in the world to get married, she never thought Daario Naharis would be one of them. However, it only takes a few moments in Marva’s company for her to realise that Marva is no ordinary woman. She can see how she would be special enough to capture the free spirit that is Daario.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Marva.”

“No, no, Your Grace, the pleasure, I assure you, is all mine.”

“Please, call me Daenerys.”

Marva smiles widely at that, “It will take some getting used to, but I will try, Daenerys. I was a slave here in Meereen when you first arrived. I have never met you before today, but I have always wanted to. I have always admired you from afar. The work you do, your passion and determination. And what you gave me, what you gave all of us… I” Marva pauses to wipe a tear from her eye, “I will never be able to thank you enough.”

“You do not need to thank me, Marva. The people of Meereen took their freedom, it was not mine to give. All I did was lend my support. The courage, the strength, the bravery, that was all the people of Meereen.”

“All the same, it is a great pleasure to meet you, Your… Daenerys.” Marva smiles.

Daario is looking at his wife with such love in his eyes that Dany can scarcely believe he is the same man she left only eleven or so moons ago.

He begins speaking, and the pride in his voice is palpable, “Marva was one of the first freely chosen leaders of Meereen.” He says. “The vote was unanimous for her. She is so smart, and so fierce, and so brave, and so loving. My poor heart didn’t stand a chance against her. I fell in love with her instantly. How could I not? Such an incredible woman. We married not long after meeting, and now, we have been blessed with the greatest of gifts.”

Daario turns to one of the other twenty people who are all looking at them fondly, and plucks a tiny bundle out of one of their arms. Marva moves closer and lowers the blanket gently so that Dany is looking into the sweet, round face of a tiny babe.

“Daenerys, please allow us to introduce you to the most important person in our life, our daughter, Daenera.”

Dany gasps slightly at the name. Daario is positively beaming with pride, and Marvra has such a tender look upon her face that it almost makes her want to cry.

She steps closer and gently runs a finger across the babe’s soft, silky cheek. She smiles widely and looks first at Marva, then Daario.

“She’s perfect,” she says. “Absolutely darling. But, ummm, but why that name?”

She’s a little embarrassed truth be told. She had not expected any of this. But certainly not something as personal, and touching as that.

“It’s as Marva said, she has always admired you. We did not know if or when you would ever be back, and we wanted to honour you. We wanted our daughter to have a name that, in Meereen calls to mind strength and compassion. And I wanted to honour you too, of course. Do you not like it?”

They both look a little worried now, as though they may have offended her, and Dany feels terrible and is quick to assuage them.

“Of course I like it. I am beyond honoured that you would name your daughter for me. Unnecessary though it is. I am flattered. Thank you.” She smiles at them sincerely.

Daario barks a laugh.

“Thank the Gods you said that.”

Now she is just confused again.

“There are probably more babies born since you left called Daenerys, or Daemon, or Daena, or Daerys than any other name. So you better get used to it, and it’s a good thing you are flattered by it.”

Dany is shocked. She wants to hide, or blush, or cry. She hadn’t known. Hadn’t known truly what an impact she had made on the lives of the people here.

And I left them. She thought to herself, filled to the brim with self-loathing. I left them all because I wanted an ugly chair, in an ugly continent. I don’t deserve how much they love me here.

But now is not the time to think about that. There will be plenty of time to ruminate on that later, she does not want to spoil the festive mood of the reunions and introductions.

With that, she finally remembers the men who had greeted them at the gates. They are all still standing at attention. Though looking on eagerly at the introductions and conversations. The first man, their captain she supposes, is still kneeling where he first stopped.

“May I ask who then, all of these people are?”

Daario comes back to himself, realising that he too, had forgotten in the wake of all the commotion. He hands the baby back to the woman who was holding her before, takes her arm in one of his, and Marva’s in the other and walks her to where the man who is kneeling is, signalling the rest forward as he does so.

Dany tenses slightly. She cannot help it. She has been surrounded by danger for so long now. Never quite being able to trust anyone. Daario senses this and assures her that she is safe.

“This,” Marva says proudly, placing a hand on the shoulder of the kneeling man, “is my brother, Kartho. Stand up, Kartho, and greet the Queen properly.”

Kartho rises gracefully for one who has been kneeling so long.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Kartho. But please, you must also call me Daenerys. Meereen is free. I am Queen here no longer” she smiles at him as she greets him.

“It is my honour to meet you, Daenerys Stormborn.”

“Kartho is their leader. It was our idea together, his and mine. Many former slaves had combat training. Whether from their forced time in the fighting pits, or from acting as guards for their former masters. We discussed how best to utilise the skills of these men in one of the first council meetings of the Chosen Leaders and we decided upon this. That they would form an army of sorts, but more of a protective detail, to patrol the streets of Meereen and ensure that the new laws were being upheld and that no persons freedom was being impinged.”

Dany is beyond impressed. This is a truly spectacular idea, she can certainly see what Daario meant when he said that Marva was smart.

“They were no army at first,” Daario interjects, “though they are nearly five thousand strong, with more wanting to join almost every day it seems. And they are still training. But they are determined, passionate, and they work every day with the Dragon’s Sons to…”

“The Dragon’s Sons?” Daenerys interrupts softly, “who exactly are they?”

“We are the Dragon’s Sons now.” Daario answers seriously, looking directly at her.

“We are no longer a sellsword company. No longer the Second Sons. We live and fight only for, and in the name of, the Mother of Dragons, for the freedom of the people. We protect Dragon’s Bay, and Meereen. The name seemed more appropriate.”

Dany cannot help herself, her eyes fill slightly with tears at this and she is at a complete loss for words. It is Grey Worm who saves her.

“You have chosen a good name for yourselves. A name that gives you pride. You have done good work here, Daario Naharis.”

Daario looks taken aback at such praise coming from Grey Worm, and thanks him most genuinely.

“And we,” Kartho says, looking at her with such shining admiration, and pride in his eyes, “We are the Free Dragons. Free men who fight for, and protect all that the Mother of Dragons bought to the people of Meereen.”

It is then that Dany fully notices the insignia carved into their black leather. It is the sigil of House Targaryen, but not quite. The carving is painted red, standing out starkly against the black of the leather, but the claws of all three dragons are unleashed and each claw holds broken pieces of slave collars, a few shattered chains scatter at the feet of the dragons.

Now she cannot hold herself back. She begins to weep, openly, unashamedly, in earnest. Overwhelmed with the honour these people have bestowed upon her. She has never felt so humbled in her life.

Kartho looks devastated, as though what he said has upset her. She throws herself into his arms and hugs him tightly, thanking him over and over. Telling him again and again how honoured, how humbled, how grateful she is to them for their work, and their faith in her.

When she finally manages to extricate herself from a bemused Kartho, Daario suggests that they have all been out in the sun for quite long enough, and that perhaps they should make their way to the Council Rooms of Meereen to continue their discussion.

They all agree and begin to walk into the city. The walk isn’t long, not nearly long enough for Dany to soak in all that she wants to about Meereen. All the things that she has missed so much. All the things she thoughtlessly threw away for a petty dream of a Throne.

But she tries not to let it bother her. She will be back soon. And then she can reacquaint herself with the city to her hearts content.

The Council Rooms are situated on the bottom floor of the Great Pyramid.

Daario has refreshments bought in and they all partake in them. Conversation flowing freely and openly.

After some time, once everyone is fed and relaxed, Dany has to remind herself why she came here. She has a future to plan. She beckons Missandei, Grey Worm, Qhono and Vitihi to her side, then asks if she may have a word with Daario, and Marva (for she seems to be the real one in charge now) privately.

They go into a small, but comfortable antechamber, and it is here, that Dany, with the help of her people, explains to an awestruck Daario and Marva, everything that had occurred since she sailed for the West.

Daario is dumbfounded by the end of it.

“You’re not joking? About any of it?”

“I wish that I were.”

“The army of the dead?”

“As real as you or I.”

“But with Khaleesi leading us into charge we defeated death itself” announces Qhono, and Dany smiles at him, nodding.

“Yes, we did.”

“And, the rest of it?” Asks Daario with anger and trepidation lacing his voice.

“Varys, that snake, he really tried to…”

“Yes. He did. And now he thinks I am dead. It is imperative that everyone in Westeros continues to believe that the case.”

“Of course, of course,” mutters Daario, though she can tell he is distracted. “Your secret will not get out, and we will spread the word that none shall tell. No one wishes you harm. We can promise you complete discretion on this. And Westeros doesn’t bother with the affairs of the East anyway. They think us too different, too savage, too foreign. And they are always warring with one another, and thinking their own affairs so important that they do not bother with the rest of the world. Now that they believe you to be gone I see no reason why they would look this way at all.”

Dany agrees with him. That Westerosi self-involvement, and sense of superiority were two things she was counting on to help keep her secret a secret.

“But that snake, Varys. I’ll have his head, I’ll take it last. I’ll slice him up from bottom to top so he can watch himself die. I’ll…”

“Daario, Daario, Daario…” Dany places a hand on his to calm him. “If I wanted him dead he would be dead already. I want to watch him fail. I don’t want to destroy him. I want to watch him destroy himself.”

“But after what he tried to do to you…”

“Trust me, my friend, my way will be infinitely more satisfying.”

“I still want to…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she sighs out fondly. “But he is not what is important. The future is what is important.”

“Indeed,” says Daario, and she can tell he is struggling, but succeeding in calming his lust for revenge right now. “And what does the future hold for Daenerys Stormborn?”

Now she outlines all of her plans. Those she made on the ship.

Daario and Marva listen raptly, and she can tell that they are excited about the prospects.

“Brilliant.” Declares Marva once she has finished. “It will be long, and hard, but together we can accomplish it.” She grabs Dany’s hand and squeezes it.

Dany can really see why this woman was unanimously chosen as a leader. She cannot wait to get to know her better, to work with her more, to see this future through together with her.

“With the Dothraki, the Unsullied, and now the Dragon’s Sons, and the Free Dragons we will have good numbers to begin. Good numbers for success.” Says Grey Worm.

Dany agrees wholeheartedly but must ask “Yes, but that is if, and only if the Dragon’s Sons and the Free Dragons want to join us outside of Meereen. This is their home and they take great pride in defending it. We cannot ask them to leave it if they do not want to.”

“You are everything I imagined you would be.” Says Marva fondly. “I will ask them, of course, but I am certain that they will want to join you. Freedom is precious, and they will want to help as many as they can become free people as we are now. This I know.”

“Thank you, Marva, Daario. Thank you for everything. We can discuss further details once we have all arrived. For now, we must return to Drogon and fly back to our ships and inform them that it is, indeed, safe to travel back to Meereen.”

“We will make plans on the journey. You discuss what you want, and need here in the meantime, and we will collaborate once we are all reunited. It should be in a moons turn, no less.”

All agreed, heartfelt farewells are made and Dany, Missandei, Grey Worm, Vitihi, and Qhono all climb back on Drogon and fly off in the direction of their ships feeling considerably lighter and happier than they did that morning.

**_Jon:_ **

Jon wakes up slowly, painfully. He doesn’t want to wake. In his dreams he is free, and Dany is alive and in his arms. In his dreams, none of this is real. But wake he does, and it is all as real today as it was yesterday. His grief is heavy. Clinging darkly and painfully around his heart. Squeezing and choking it. It feels wrong, so terribly, terribly wrong to be at Dragonstone without Dany. It was never supposed to be this way. This is not what was supposed to happen. He didn’t want any of this.

He had to get off this island. And he had to get the Northerners off of it too. Seeing them here only feed the thick, clawing wrap of grief surrounding him. They did not deserve to be here. They did not belong in Dany’s home.

He had to get them all away from this place. Truly, he did not want to leave. He did not want to return to the North, and Winterfell and face the pack of wolves which were once his pack, but had now turned feral and selfish in the wild. He wanted to stay at Dragonstone, alone, surrounded by sweet memories of Dany.

But this was not an option. And he needed to get the Northerners out of her home.

He rose with that sense of purpose and quickly and roughly repacked the few things he had taken out of his bag.

Task completed, he looks forlornly to the four items, still lying on his bed, those four items that are now the four most precious things he possesses. He cannot, will not have anyone else looking at them, let alone touching them. No one is to go anywhere near them. They are his. They are _Dany’s._ They are all he has left. He empties out his bag and begins to pack it again more carefully. Layering his clothing delicately around the brooch, the sword, the diary so that all are tucked in gently and safely. Hidden well.

He then picks up the piece of dragonglass. He brings it to his lips softly, and takes a moment to breathe. To breathe and allow himself to feel. To breathe and allow himself to remember Dany.

Shaking slightly Jon then makes his way to her room. He knows what he plans to do seems macabre. Morbid. Creepy, even. But he wants this piece of Dany close to him always. She left behind no clothing. None of her silks or gowns which would carry her scent and which he could use for this purpose. So he will have to make do.

He doesn’t want to go back into her room. He will never get the image of it out of his mind – he certainly doesn’t need to see it again as a reminder. But he wants this. He needs this. So he forces himself to enter.

The scene is unchanged and it buckles his knees the same as it had the first time. He is crying. He knows he is.

Gently, worshipfully he takes pieces of her sheet, avoiding bits that have any blood on them – he doesn’t want that. Can’t stand that. He wants to remember her alive, happy, laughing. He tears three long, thin pieces and braids them tightly, with shaking hands, into a strong braid.

He had had no idea how to braid before he’d met Dany. But he’d loved playing with her hair, running his fingers through it, messing it up, undoing her smaller braids in the process. She’d always playfully scold him when he’d do this and they needed to be somewhere soon, somewhere where people would see them. But he was unrepentant, and would continue to do it – he said she couldn’t stop him, and she’d laughed, and he’d smiled and she’d said that she may not be able to stop him, that she didn’t even want to try, but the least he could do was fix what he had undone. So she’d taught him a simple braid.

And that is what he is doing now.

Carefully he braids the strips of sheet into a single thin length of clean, white linen. The evening prior he had worked carefully and patiently to bore a small hole through the piece of dragonglass. He’d hated to do it. To put a hole in this piece of Dany, but he needed this.

He now works to thread the sheet through the hole and ties the two loose ends together tightly. He then delicately, reverently, lowers it over his head until it rests around his neck, the piece of dragonglass sitting just to the side of his aching heart. Now this piece of Dany will rest where she always has, and always will belong. By his heart. And he will protect it the way he should have protected her.

He tucks it inside his clothes, wipes his tears, and after taking one last painful look, leaves the room and closes the door.

He needs to get the Northerners off this island. Today. Now.

He marches down to the Hall with purpose assuming he will find everyone breaking their fast. Intent on telling them to load and board the ships. But some people it seems, are resolved to test his patience.

On the way there he spots several Northmen opening doors and rifling through empty wardrobes. He can feel his blood pounding in his ears. This is why he needs them gone. He cannot abide by them being near anything that had belonged to Dany.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” he thunders at them and they all jump at the sound of his voice.

“We’re just looking to see if the Dragon Queen left anything valuable behind. We might need that stuff, you know, going in to war and all.”

“This is Queen Daenerys’ home.” He says coldly, trying and failing to curb his temper.

“Yeah, and the Dragon Queen is dead, so now it’s no one’s home.”

“This is _Queen Daenerys’_ home,” he says stressing the name, and title, “whether she is here or not you will continue to treat it as such.”

“What do you care?” One of them asks, continuing to paw through the wardrobe with his filthy hands. “We’re doing this to gather resources for your war, we…”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish because Jon has grabbed him by the back of the neck and thrown him to the ground. He stands over him menacingly.

“If I see, or hear of any of you doing anything like this again I will take my bluntest dagger and use it remove your hands so slowly that by the time I’m only half way through you’ll be begging me to take your heads instead. Do you understand me?” He roars at them.

Most of them look terrified. The one he’d thrown to the floor has pissed himself, and Jon finds a grim satisfaction in that.

Some others though, they are still looking at him sceptically, rudely even. One of them even has the nerve to ask him again why he even cares.

He does not have the energy for this. He cannot believe the faith he used to put in Northern honour. In Northern goodness.

“You are aware by now, I am sure, that I am the Rightful Heir to the Iron Throne. The True King of Westeros?” His voice is dangerous and low, coming out sounding more like a growl.

They all nod frantically.

“Well then fucking act like it. I will be demanding pledges of fealty once we return North. Which we are doing today, now.”

“And as for why I care, I do not need to explain myself to the likes of you. I have many things to say, to explain, and I will only be doing it once. I’m not going to waste my breath saying the same damn thing to each individual dishonourable, ungrateful, cunt who dares to question me.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you – but I will, once we return to Winterfell, once everyone is gathered. In the meantime you had all better fucking watch yourselves and make sure you don’t do anything else that might offend me.”

“Now fuck off and ready the ships. We’re leaving immediately.”

The men scurry off like the vermin they are.

He is breathing heavily, his blood still pumping with an all consuming rage when he turns around and sees Varys looking at him wearily.

“Jon,” Varys begins, his tone placatingly condescending.

Jon just stares at him coldly, unflinchingly.

“I apologise, I mean, Your Grace.” Varys tries again. “You need these men, you need them on your side, it would not do to aliena...”

“I am their King, is that not what you said? Is that not what you told them? Is that not what you wanted from me?” His tone is like ice, his eyes even harder.

“Yes, of course, Your Grace. You are the true King, but...”

“But nothing. They will do as commanded”

“They need to want to follow you.”

“You had a Queen people wanted to follow. You let her down. Now you have me. It is treason to speak against the King. That is the only thing they need to know.”

“Now go with them and make sure my orders are fulfilled. I want us to leave immediately. It will take us more than a month, in this weather, to get back to White Harbour.”

“I have a letter to write. I expect the ships to be fully loaded and ready to go by the time I am finished or everyone will be very, very sorry.”

Varys looks concerned. Tyrion, a little frightened. Davos merely agrees and pats him on the shoulder. Tells him to do what he needs to do. He thanks the Gods for Davos. He is perhaps the only person left in this world that he can trust.

He walks away and enters the small study that had been parts of his rooms at Dragonstone. There, he sits down and begins to write a letter.

**_Daenerys:_ **

Finally, finally, after just over a moon at sea they have all arrived safely in Meereen.

The streets are crowded and noisy. Decorations hanging from buildings and homes. Brightly coloured lanterns strung together on string and littering the tables that have been dragged outside and are groaning under the weight of the feasts of food placed upon them.

Loud, raucous, joyful music is being played.

Everyone is enjoying the welcome celebration. The celebration for her, her and her people.

Dany is overwhelmed by it all. By the people, by their love.

She is huge now. There is no denying it. It seems as though her belly has doubled in size since she was last in Meereen a moon or so ago. So much so that Vitihi has taken to prodding at her daily – so much so that she has begun to confidently speculate, though Dany does not dare allow herself to hope, that she might be carrying not just one, but two precious babes inside her.

She is sitting at one of the tables, her plate piled high, laughing with Missandei as they both reacquaint themselves with the delicious, flavour-filled food Meereen has to offer when Daario approaches her.

“I don’t want to interrupt, or ruin your revelry, Daenerys. Gods know you’ve earned it. But a letter arrived here a few days before you all did, and I thought you might want to see it sooner rather than later.”

Now she is worried. Could she have been caught out? Did someone in Westeros somehow discover that she was alive? But no, Daario sounds serious, but not dire.

She takes a steadying breath and follows him into a small, but comfortable and breezy room. She lowers herself carefully into a chair and Daario hands her a scroll and moves to walk away.

She looks up at him, confused.

“I’ll leave you to read it alone.” He says. “I think you’ll want to.”

This does nothing to settle her nerves. With trembling fingers she unrolls the parchment. Her heart tries to leap out of her chest as she recognises Jon’s handwriting. She begs it to be still as she begins to read.

_To the People of Meereen,_

_As I am sure you already know, for her people vowed they would take her home, Daenerys Targaryen, Queen of Meereen, and the Rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, has died. If you did not already know, then I apologise most profusely for being the bearer of such devastating news to you._

_Daenerys, your Queen, and ours, was murdered, poisoned, in Westeros. To my rage, frustration, and shame, we still do not know who the culpable person, or persons are – but please allow me to assure you, on my honour, and as someone who loved her dearly, that discovering the culprit, and bringing them to justice, is now of the highest priority._

_Queen Daenerys, and her people, the Unsullied, and the Dothraki, made incredible sacrifices for, and gave an unrequitable service to Westeros during their time here. Without her, and them, we would all be dead. This will not be forgotten. You have my word._

_As you celebrate, remember, and honour her as the Queen who was the Breaker of Chains, we will celebrate, remember, and honour her as the Queen who Bought the Dawn._

_There are no words I can offer, nor gifts I can give to make up for the loss of a woman as extraordinary as Queen Daenerys Targaryen. But I would like to offer something to you, her people, whom she loved with her whole heart._

_Dragonstone Island, and the castle which sits upon it, belonged to Queen Daenerys’ family for centuries. I would like to make a present of this holding to the Unsullied, and the Dothraki, for their great loyalty to Queen Daenerys, as well as their inimitable aid in the War for the Dawn. I would also like to open it up to any of Queen Daenerys’ people who would wish to travel there and see the place that meant so much to the Queen they loved. The Queen they chose._

_Unfortunately, currently, it is not safe to travel there. The false Queen Cersei Lannister still sits upon the Iron Throne which belonged to Queen Daenerys. However, once she is deposed, I shall write again, and make this offer again to all who would wish to take it up. Once Cersei Lannister is defeated, Dragonstone will be maintained, in perpetuity, with all the care, attention, and respect due to the birthplace of Queen Daenerys, and then it shall belong to you, her people. I believe she would have liked you to have it, such was the open and giving nature of her heart._

_I swear to you this will come to pass. I will avenge your Queen, and ours by removing the false Queen from the Iron Throne._

_You have my word._

_With my deepest respect, regards, and sympathies for your loss, and ours,_

_Jon Snow_

Gods. Oh Gods. That fool. That idiotic, honourable, fool.

What was this? What was he doing?

His impassioned promises were one thing. And she could not help but feel warmed that he wanted to gift Dragonstone to her people. That he was finally, finally showing his appreciation for them, their aid and their sacrifice.

But the underlying intentions of the letter worried her. He was actually going to do it. He was going to try to claim his alleged birthright and attempt to take the Throne from Cersei.

Why? Why? What a fool. He didn’t have a chance. Not a hope, nor a prayer. How could he not see that? She knows he’s not an idiot. What the hells had happened after she left Westeros?

She wondered what poisonously manipulative words the spider had whispered into his ear to get him to agree. It had to be his about his family. The North. Protecting them. That was the best, the only, way really to motivate Jon Snow. But still, how could he not see how dangerously outnumbered he was?

All of her anxieties, her worries, her fears for him that she been keeping at bay by remembering what an intelligent man he really was hit her now at full force once again. He couldn’t possibly win this. Couldn’t possibly survive this.

And then, as much as she hated it, there was a small part of her that couldn’t stop herself from considering the possibility that this is what he had wanted from the first. Ever since he found out about who he truly was.

That, after all, had been when he had begun completely distancing himself from her. Not just the casual, yet still painful dismissals, and spiteful lies, but actually disassociating himself and whatever feelings he had once had for her entirely.

Was this it? Had he always wanted the Throne? Was he glad for a chance to take it now with her out of the way? 

She didn’t believe it. Not really. But that tiny part of her could not stop wondering. Might never stop wondering.

Fuck.

This changed everything. This complicated everything.

She had known that the spider would try. But she had not anticipated, had not considered that Jon would be an active participant.

Now it would be even longer before she could contact him to tell him of their babe. Would it even be safe now, to tell him? To let him know that she still lived? For if he did actually want the Throne then both her, and their babe were a threat to that. 

She had thought she could simply wait out the chaos is Westeros, then, once it was over, inform Jon of what he deserved to know. But now, now things were different. She had been a fool to believe otherwise. She would have to find a way to keep a closer eye on the goings on in Westeros. She would have to find a way to discover Jon’s true intentions towards the Throne.

Was it duty or desire that was driving him?

In her heart she knew it had to be duty. But her heart was still broken. Was still shattered. It had not had the time to mend.

She needed to know. She needed to know what he was thinking. But she had no idea how she could possibly find out. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some people might be thinking it is very OOC for Daario to have settled down and gotten married and had a baby so quickly. But, he needed to be there in Meereen, and I didn't want there to be any kind of consideration that Dany and he would get back together, nor do I want there to be any kind of weird jealousy-type situation arising when Jon and Dany reunite. So... married and very happily so, Daario. Plus, I love Marva - she's the best.


	8. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a shorter chapter meant to lay the groundwork for some of what is to come...
> 
> Thank you so, so much to everyone who commented on the last chapter - I really appreciate it so very much.
> 
> Speaking of comments... A lot of people seemed concerned in them about Dany's thoughts regarding Jon taking the Throne. I responded to them there, but I know not everyone reads the comments so I thought I would try to clear it up here:
> 
> Dany doesn't really think that Jon truly wanted the throne all along, she doesn't even think he wants it now. She has had those same thoughts several times now throughout the story, and every time, like she did this time, she comes back to herself and realises that she knows, in her heart, that Jon didn't, and doesn't want it. But doubting situations occasionally is entirely normal. I blame the Recency Effect that people think it meant something so much more last chapter than it did the several other times in the story she was thinking about it.
> 
> Dany's emotions regarding Jon are all over the place at the moment. She doesn't truly believe he wanted the throne the whole time, she corrects herself in thinking that immediately - for her, it is primarily because she doesn't understand why he told his sisters when a) he knew they hated her, b) he knew what the truth could do to her, and so c) why would he tell if it was so likely the truth would get out unless he wanted the truth to get out (i.e., he wanted the throne). 
> 
> She really does know he doesn't want it - but that is the one sticking point for her: WHY would he tell? What was his motivation? This is because, at least how I interpret it - Dany doesn't have the same perception and understanding of familial duty - why would she, she never had family except Viserys and he totally used her. This is perhaps also why she trusted, and continues (to an extent) to trust Tyrion even though they were going to war against his family. To her, she can seperate family from what should be done / is right etc, and she, perhaps naively, thinks, and assumes that others do the same. She doesn't have the experience to comprehend that Jon felt duty-bound to tell his sisters. That's why, every now and then, she wonders, just a little, if he always wanted the throne - even though she knows in her heart he didn't and doesn't. Hope that makes sense.

**_Cersei:_ **

Cersei sat behind the lavish desk in her plush, and comfortable solar sipping her third glass of wine slowly.

She wanted to remember this moment. She wanted to savour it. She was jubilant.

She had won. She had won and she hadn’t even had to do anything.

The Dragon bitch was dead. Dead. Dead. That smug, upstart of a child was dead. Murdered. Poisoned. And now her corpse, and her horde of savages, and her beastly lizards were far away across the Narrow Sea. Back to where they belonged.

And she had won.

When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die. There is no middle ground.

She had won, and the Dragon whore had died.

Everything was perfect. Except for one thing. In this instance there was an odd middle ground.

A middle ground in the form of Jon Snow. The Bastard of Winterfell.

Without the foreign slut to rally behind, and pull the strings of, that slippery spider Varys had fashioned himself a new claimant in one of the most outrageous ways imaginable.

He’d been sending out ravens to Lords all across Westeros. Ravens detailing a ridiculous tale. A tale of a bastard boy, who was secretly the trueborn King. A bastard boy who was, according to him, no bastard, but the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Whether the tale is true or not doesn’t matter, for his proof of this claim is ludicrous, laughable, pathetic. A long dead maester’s dusty diary, and the godless visions of the bastard’s brother? Who would give credit to such a fantasy?

She, herself, doesn’t believe the story to be true. But even if it was, she doesn’t see how it will be a problem.

Jon Snow may, perhaps, be Rhaegar’s son. But at the very most he is Rhaegar’s bastard son.

Rhaegar had a lawful wife and two legitimate children. Two healthy heirs. And he was not the King. Regardless of what this alleged diary may claim, an annulment would have been an impossibility. Unlawful. A sham.

She knows that they have all gone scurrying back to the frozen hell called the North where they intended to make plans to rise against her. Varys was not the only one with little birds. But she was not concerned. Not at all.

She takes a moment to think how foolish they must think her, or how clever they must think themselves, to believe that she does not know of their plans.

She has been playing the game of thrones since before half these children were even born. And as for those who had been at it as long as her, well, they were clearly losing their wits.

Just look at that idiot Varys, openly spreading his treasonous tale across the continent, as though she would not hear of it. Or Tyrion, and the absolute cascade of failures he had made when in the position of the Dragon harlot’s Hand.

They can scheme and scheme all they want. She knows that nothing will come of it. But that is not the point. She is Cersei Lannister. She is the Queen. She will not be insulted like this.

Those Northerners, those Starks, she thinks with disdain, have gotten away with far too much for far too long. Removing the Bolton’s from Winterfell was treason. Declaring themselves an independent kingdom was treason. Declaring the North for the foreign usurper was treason. And she will not tolerate it.

Robert had given the North a wide berth to do as they pleased during his time as King and it had made them arrogant, wilful, vainglorious. Ned was his best friend and he had trusted him implicitly.

Cersei laughs heartily to herself, her mirth brimming over as much as her wine is. For if this was all true then Robert’s best friend had been lying to him for years and years. Lying to him about the only thing that Robert really, truly cared about. The only thing that mattered to him.

She smirks as she considers that it appears Ned Stark being executed for treason was justified after all, even if it happened at a later time, and for a different reason. A traitor is still a traitor. And he had betrayed Robert. Not that she cared about that. She just found the whole thing endlessly amusing.

But there will be time to laugh about that later, indeed she thinks she will be laughing about it for the rest of her life. Right now however, she has her own plans to execute. And they are remarkably simple.

The first thing she does is send an envoy to the Citadel with explicit instructions to find this maester’s diary and destroy it. That diary is their only piece of barely credible proof. With it gone, they have absolutely nothing but a story. And a ‘vision’, she scoffs to herself.

She doesn’t need to fight the North. They will destroy themselves before it even comes to that. All she really _has_ to do, is wait.

Jamie, her beloved Jamie had returned to her and told her of the situation at Winterfell and in the North in general. She was still furious at him for having abandoned her in some otiose attempt to be noble or something. But he had come back to her. He always came back to her. And his information has proven invaluable.

The North was a mess. Plain and simple.

Firstly, they were starving. Or if they were not yet, they would be soon. The Boltons had destroyed all of their glass gardens meant for growing food in the winter, so they were not an option. And the fighting during the war against this army of the dead had destroyed much of the surrounding land, and Winterfell itself, including much of the food storage, which, if Jamie was to be believed, had held the bulk of the entire North’s winter food supply because that simpering Sansa Stark had ordered all food be bought to Winterfell in preparation for that war.

Secondly, they were mutinous. Not just against the Crown, but against one another. Apparently the Lords of the North could agree on little, and in-fighting was rampant. This would serve her well. If they could not unify, and she doubted that those bull-headed fools could, then they would never be a true threat.

Thirdly, they had no true allies. The North had isolated itself for too long. They had become the pariahs of the Seven Kingdoms.

Lastly, they barely had any men fit for fighting. The war against the dead army had had significant casualties. And the North had barely had many men before that anyway what with the War of the Five Kings, and the Starks warring with the Boltons to take back Winterfell.

All of this was good news for her. But she was not the type of woman to sit back and leave things to chance. She had not gotten to where she was today by waiting and hoping. They would destroy themselves, of this she was certain, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help hurry the process along.

She knows that they will think themselves invulnerable. Safe from attack, huddling and hiding out at Winterfell as they are planning to do. It is winter after all. Who would attack the North during winter? And every military man will tell you that the Neck can be held by 200 archers, even against an entire army.

But she is not going to attempt an attack. She is simply going to box them in and watch them die slowly.

She will send half of the Golden Company, and some of the Lannister army to keep them in line, to the bottom of the Neck. They need not attempt to breach it. All they need do is hold camp there. Ensure that no Northerner comes through in a desperate bid for supplies, that no potential ally sneaks through in an attempt to aid them, and that no Northern army, no matter how small will exit the Neck alive.

The other half of the Golden Company… well, she has other plans for them. Bigger plans.

She will also send Euron and his fleet to bottle up White Harbour, and any other surrounding ports so that the North cannot gain aid or supplies via that means.

That should be enough. In truth it is enough. But she remembers something her father once said: “Some battles are won with swords and spears, others with quills and ravens.”

She will win this battle with both.

She doesn’t need allies. Doesn’t want them. But she would be a fool not to try what she is about to do.

She is loathe to do it. She will never forgive Dorne for the murder of her sweet Myrcella. But she knows, that they too, have never forgotten, nor forgiven the murder of Elia and her children.

Which is why she knows that they must surely be absolutely livid, insulted beyond measure at these claims of annulments, and remarriage, and a legitimate, living son of Rhaegar – a son who, absurdly, has the same name as their murdered Princess’s murdered babe.

Thus, she writes a message to the new Princess of Dorne, Arianne Martell. In it she explains that she understands that there has been bad blood between their families, but now they have a common enemy and it might be wise to, if not work together, then at least work in tandem to eliminate it.

To curry favour, she details how she personally saw to the death of Ellaria Sand, the woman who murdered Arianne’s beloved father.

Then, to seal the deal, with the message she sends a box containing the head of Gregor Clegane. Finally delivering them the justice they have so long desired for Princess Elia and her children.

It makes no difference to her. She has many guards. And Qyburn will make her another monster if she asks him to.

**_Jon:_ **

He was miserable. Travelling this route, that he had once travelled with Dany on the way to Dragonstone had been torture enough. But at least then he had thought that he was on his way to see her again. That he would be by her side again soon. That he would hold her in his arms again soon.

But this, travelling back without Dany. Travelling back alone. Travelling back alone because Dany was dead. It felt like he was in the very deepest pits of the Seven Hells.

He spent most, if not all, of his time oscillating between grief and anger. Grief for Dany. His darling, delightful Dany. Mourning for Dany who was not at his side.

And anger. Anger at the situation he had been thrust unwillingly into. Anger at the mantle of King that he was now manipulated, forced, and blackmailed into taking up when he did not want it. Anger at the people for whom he must do this, the same people who had made this necessary in the first place.

It did not help that he had given into temptation and read a passage from Dany’s diary. He hadn’t wanted to. Those were her private thoughts, and she deserved her privacy. He remembered her smiling up at him in bed, on this very same route and telling him “I never want to keep anything from you. I trust you Jon.”

But that was before. Before he proved time and time again that he was not worthy of, did not deserve her trust.

But being on this ship alone, without Dany. This route alone, without Dany. He gave in and read. He wanted to read about their time on the ship together. He wanted to immerse himself in that experience, those memories, in the hopes that it would lift him away from the reality of what he was actually experiencing. He wanted to pretend he was on that ship, at that time again.

So he sought out that place in her diary, and he read:

_When I was a very young girl I always adored sailing. I thought there was no greater feeling than the freedom that the open ocean could provide. Standing on the deck and seeing nothing but blue skies, and blue water. It was like being cocooned in a blanket of happiness and calm. But now, here, sailing on this ship, I realise that there_ is _a greater feeling. And that feeling is sailing - though it need not even be sailing - but just being with someone you love so very much._

_Being on this ship, with Jon, I feel freer, and more blissful than I ever have in my entire life. I feel ensconced in that cocoon of happiness and calm (even though we spend very little time above deck, because we have much more delectable things to occupy ourselves with below)._

_I know the enemy we face. It is terrifying and formidable. I know I should feel like I am sailing towards my doom. But I don’t. I feel like I am sailing towards my future. Because I am with Jon. Because Jon is my future._

_And we_ will _defeat this enemy. I will do everything in my power to make it so. Because this enemy is threatening Jon’s home, Jon’s family, Jon’s people, and Jon loves his home, his family, his people, and I love Jon. So it is that simple. We will win. We have to. For Jon._

_I admit that while I am excited to see Winterfell, I am terribly nervous as well. I know I am not well liked in the North – not for who I am, they do not know who I am. But for my name. I desperately hope that Jon was right and that these people, his people, will come to see me for what I am. Will come to see me as more than my name in the same way that Jon has. Well… not_ exactly _in the same way that Jon has. That privilege is for Jon, and Jon only._

_Most of all I am excited and nervous about meeting his family, his siblings. I am sure they will be wary of me, as all those in the North are, but I do hope, oh but I do hope that they come to like me as much as I already like them from the stories that Jon has told me about them all._

_Arya, of course, I want to like me – for she is indisputably Jon’s favourite. And from what Jon says, she sounds like such a wonderful, open, and free spirited girl. Never one to be told what to do, or who she should be. I already admire her greatly for that. Jon says that she adored tales of dragons, and the Targaryen dragon riders of old. I am hoping perhaps that we can bond over that. Perhaps she will want to meet my children? Perhaps that will make her happy? I will ask her if she does, and I hope that if she does, that it does make her happy._

_Sansa and I are closer in age, so maybe we will have an easy time getting along. From the little Jon has said, and I understand why he has said so little, for it is not his story to tell, and from what I have garnered from what he has not said, but from his sad, and troubled expression when talking about her, it seems as though she and I have had many similar experiences. Though hers, of course, are more recent, and so perhaps more raw than my own. Maybe, if she will allow it, if she will have me as her friend, I can help her in some small way in that regard. I could listen, and empathise, and hopefully show her that she will heal. That that pain, while never fully going away, does lessen with time. That she will feel safe, and whole, and open again one day. Jon told me that she loves to sew, that she is extraordinarily talented at it. Once he told me this I did my very best to stich her a handkerchief as a thank you gift for welcoming us into her home. A small thing, I know, for how gracious she is being in hosting us – but I feared I would not be up to the task of making anything grander. And, alas, I was correct. Stitching is not one of my skills, and the poor thing came out looking wretched. I tried again, thrice more, but each attempt turned out more pathetic than the last. I think she will be more offended if I offered her such abysmal work than if I offered her nothing at all. Perhaps, once we are friends as I hope we will be, I will tell her this, and show her the simply awful job I made of the handkerchiefs and we will laugh about it together, and maybe she will even offer to teach me how to do it properly._

_And Bran, Jon speaks of Bran with such wistfulness. Of a bright and energetic young boy. But I can tell that Jon is worried about seeing him again. The last time he saw him he was not even conscious, yet he had to say goodbye to him that way. I hope their reunion is everything that Jon wants it to be. And I hope Bran likes me too. I confess I do not know how to ingratiate myself with Bran, and that worries me. All my experiences of young boys come from the children of the Dothraki, and the freed slave children. Jon says that Bran used to love stories, so perhaps he will like to hear stories of the East… but maybe he is too old for stories now? I will just have to hope for the best with Bran. And I do hope for the best. I hope for the best with all three of them, as they mean so very much to Jon. And Jon means so very much to me. I would hate to be the cause or source of any tension between Jon and his family. And I would hate to lose Jon because his family find me lacking._

_Is it selfish of me that I never want this voyage to end? If I could, I would spend the rest of my life on this ship. In bed, making love to Jon, talking with him, learning everything there is to know about him, just being with him, hopefully making him laugh his beautiful laugh again. It is selfish, I know. We have an enemy to defeat. I have to keep reminding myself of this. It seems impossible, but I am so deliriously happy that I do forget that we are on our way to war at times._

He had had to stop there. He couldn’t read any more. He wept, and wept as he read. He wept for Dany’s open heart and hopeful nature. Of how much she had wanted to be accepted by his family, only for his family to never even give her a chance. Not only did they not give her a chance, they went well out of their way to make it clear to her that she was unwelcome, unwanted, unappreciated.

He remembers the conversation the four of them had in the Godswood, he remembers how vicious, malicious, and dismissive they were about Dany. Why the fuck had he then, after hearing that, after hearing them speak of Dany in that way, told them the truth? How had he thought he could trust them? What was going through his mind?

He knows what. He felt it was his duty to tell them. They were his family, and they deserved the truth. It effected them too, he’d thought. He’d thought they deserved to know that their father was never unfaithful to their mother.

He’d also, foolishly he now knows, thought that they would be honourable and respect the sanctity of a vow made in that sacred place. That they would uphold their promise of secrecy as the sacrosanct oath that it was. But no, not those people. Not the people they are now. He doesn’t know those people. They are not his siblings. Not the siblings he knew. He knows that now, and he will not be making the same mistake of trusting them ever again.

But none of that changes the fact that Dany, his Dany, is dead. Probably because of his damn honour, his siblings lack of honour, and his foolish decision that day.

She came to the North to save it, with her heart open, hoping to find friends. But all she had found there were spiteful, ungrateful enemies. And he hadn’t helped. He’d been a coward and he hadn’t helped at all.

He would give anything to turn back time and do it all over again. He would change every single thing from the moment that they docked at White Harbour. 

He places his hand atop the piece of dragonglass which jumps in time with his erratic heartbeat, and tries to get some rest.

**_Tyrion:_ **

Tyrion is worried about Jon. He is beginning to remind him of that reckless, angry young boy he had met at Winterfell when travelling with King Robert what felt like a life time ago. He will only talk to Ser Davos when Ser Davos brings him his meals, and even then, they usually only talk for a short period of time.

He barely leaves his cabin and when he does do so he is irritated and gruff. Short-tempered. Stern. Snapping at anyone and everyone.

He refuses to sit with them and make any plans. He says that he agreed to stake his claim to the Throne because duty demanded it of him, but that he wanted no part in the petty political manoeuvring of it all. He reminds them that that was the part they said they would do.

Still, they continue to ask him to attend a Council. To say something to his people. Yet his only response when asked to do so is that he will address the people once they have returned to Winterfell, once everyone is gathered. Once everything is set to rights. Whatever that last one means Tyrion does not know.

He knows that Jon is grieving Daenerys. He can see it in the dull, sunken appearance of his eyes. His beard has not been trimmed nor groomed since they left Dragonstone, and his movements have a restless, wild quality to them which would be frightening if Tyrion did not understand that he was mourning. If he did not know that he was suffering under the weight of an immeasurable loss. And Tyrion does understand.

He himself is still crippled with heartache, anguish, and sorrow. He is taunted by nightmares of a blood soaked bed, and wide violet eyes looking at him so desolately as though imploring him to tell her why he had failed her.

But as much as Tyrion understands, he also knows that things cannot go on like this much longer. Not if they want to succeed. And so, he is worried.

Which is why he finds himself entering Varys’ cabin, hoping to discuss strategy with his old friend. But Varys isn’t in there.

He is about to turn and leave when his eyes catch a number of opened letters littering Varys’ desk.

He is curious. Varys had not mentioned anything to him about receiving any correspondence, and the two of them are supposed to be in this together. For this to work he needs to know everything that is going on.

With this need in mind, Tyrion approaches the desk and shuffles through the papers. He can see what they are, and he can see now why Varys had been reluctant to mention them.

There are a large number of letters. But each of them have the same underlying message. Sentences and phrases jump out at him.

_I consider myself to be a devout man. My faith in the Seven is strong and unassailable. I am therefore insulted that you expect me to put any trust or stock in the deranged visions of a, clearly very ill, young boy, who claims that the Old Gods – Gods whom I do not believe exist – gave him the powers to have. On my faith I cannot, and will not support what you are attempting to do._

_It was not long ago that the North declared themselves independent from the Seven Kingdoms. They did not want to be united. They did not want to be a part of Westeros. And now you expect me to rally my people to fight to put a Northerner on the Throne when they wanted nothing to do with us? This I will not do._

_I knew Ned Stark well. He was the most honourable, and honest man I had the pleasure of being acquainted with. If he said that the boy, Jon, was his bastard son, then that is the truth of it to me. Ned would not lie to his King, who was also his best friend, especially not about something so close to King Robert’s own heart and interests. Ned had more honour and respect for the Crown than that. I do not believe your tale, and you cannot count on the support of myself or my bannermen._

_As a man who holds strongly and firmly to the laws that govern Westeros, I do not accept your claim that an annulment between Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia was granted. Such an annulment would have been unlawful. Only Aerys, who was King at the time would have had the power to have allowed it. Additionally, I do not believe that Prince Rhaegar would have been foolish enough, nor would he have had the grounds to attempt to obtain one. He had a lawful wife and two healthy heirs. The people of my region respect the letter of the law. You do not have our backing._

_My late wife and I had the great pleasure to meet the Princess Elia in Kings Landing. She was a kind and gracious woman who was sweet and generous to my wife, and my wife spoke highly of her her entire life. I refuse to believe a man as honourable and good as Rhaegar would so carelessly cast aside such a noble wife and woman. Especially as she had already dutifully provided him with two heirs. You cannot count on the support of me or my vassals in your war against her good name._

_Even if your story is true, that this boy is Rhaegar’s son, which I very much doubt, he would still have been nothing more than Rhaegar’s bastard. I will not fight to place a bastard on the Iron Throne. Bastards are greedy, grasping, manipulative things. Wicked by nature. Whatever deceitful tale this boy has spun to make you believe he is entitled to be King is naught but lies to gild and bolster his coveting of power. You are a fool to believe him._

_You say this alleged proof of the union of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark, this diary (which, by your own admission, makes no mention of a child) was discovered in the Citadel. However, it was not discovered by a trusted and esteemed master, but instead by an acolyte who deserted his studies and his position there? This cannot be trusted and I will not act based on circumspect information._

_I have always been a firm, and proud supporter of the Targaryens. Indeed, I was overjoyed to hear that Aerys’ daughter had finally made her way home to us. And I am devastated by her loss. Given my great support for the Targaryen name, I find it insulting that you are trying to take a wolf and give it dragon wings._

_Rhaegar did indeed have a son named Aegon. He was murdered as a babe. I had the unfortunate luck of being in Kings Landing that day and seeing his mutilated little body. Do you honestly expect me to believe that there was always a spare Aegon hidden away up North? And do you truly expect me to believe this based on a godless vision this so-called Aegon’s cousin allegedly had? You are madder than the mad king if you think I will bring my people to war with such flimsy, dubious evidence._

_I have heard of Jon Snow, Ned Stark’s bastard. I have heard that he is a formidable warrior. However, even if he is who you say he is, and he may well be Rhaegar’s bastard,_ _for I know Rhaegar was not the good and golden prince many believed him to be,_ _I cannot and will not support him. For I also know that Jon Snow took the Black, and swore an oath to the Nights Watch. In doing so he gave up all claims and titles that would be his. I will not fight to place an oathbreaker on the throne._

_How convenient for you, Varys. You throw your lot in with the Targaryens and as soon as Aerys’ daughter is dead you miraculously find a hitherto unknown secret hidden Targaryen. You must take me for a fool if you think I’ll believe your manipulations. You will not have my support in your farce of a coup._

Tyrion sighs to himself as he walks above deck in search of Varys, and finds him leaning out against a railing.

“I was looking for you”

Varys turns his head to him in acknowledgment, but says nothing in response.

“I saw the letters. I read what they said. Why didn’t you tell me, why didn’t you tell anyone that you had received responses? This is information that we all need to know.”

Varys turns back to stare out at the sea, and says blandly “I was going to tell you, when the time was right. But it seems I do not need to wait for that time now.”

Tyrion cannot understand Varys’ apparent apathy.

“This is serious Varys. Those letters. None of them believed. None of them will answer a call to arms. I can’t say I do not see where they are coming from. The story, true as we know it to be, sounds more like something out of a children’s book than real life. And we have no real proof. Nothing solid we can give, or show them.”

Tyrion knows he himself would never believe it. Not if he had simply been sent the information via raven.

If he hadn’t seen Jon ride Rhaegal. If he hadn’t seen Bran’s powers with his own eyes he still wouldn’t believe.

And Rhaegal is gone. And they can hardly invite every Lord of Westeros to Winterfell to witness Bran do… whatever it is Bran does. Tyrion is still not clear on the details. He doubts Bran would even cooperate with that if they did manage to gather the Lords. Bran seems to care for little and less these days.

“What are we supposed to do now? How can we convince them to our side?” Tyrion asks, desperate to get Varys to engage.

Varys lifts his head in a gesture of confidence.

“Those letters were a set-back of course. But everyone despises your sister. They will come around to the new order of things. And Jon has the support of the North. The North is the largest kingdom.”

“The North is bled dry of men who can fight. We were just there Varys, you saw the state the North was in. How few they had to begin with, how many they then lost, how many they have left now.” Varys had always been a practical man. Tyrion cannot understand why he is purposefully ignoring all these very real obstacles.

“The Wildlings are fiercely supportive of Jon. There are many of them. They will back him. They will fight for him.” Varys sounds very pleased, and convinced with this.

Tyrion himself was not so sure about that. The Free Folk did love Jon. But they were not kneelers. They were the _Free_ Folk. He’s not certain that they can count on their support to fight a war for a Throne so far South. But he doesn’t feel like getting into that finer point with Varys right now.

“Besides,” Varys says, his confidence growing, “there are many people I have yet to reach out to. Those initial ravens were sent just to test the waters, so to speak. The Vale will stand by him on account of Lady Sansa, the Riverlands too, for the same reason.”

“But they are not Jon’s kin. They are Lady Sansa’s kin through her mother, not her father.” Tyrion tries to make him see reason.

“It makes no matter, I will see to it. You forget my influence is wide, my friend. You forget that this is what I do. Daenerys too was nothing, had nothing, before I took her on.” Varys’ voice is positively dripping with arrogance now.

Tyrion stares at him, flabbergasted. “Before you _took her on_ she had hatched three live dragons from petrified stone eggs, she was a Khaleesi in her own right, she had sacked three cities, freed hundreds of thousands of slaves. She had an army of Unsullied and the backing of the Second Sons. She was the bloody Queen of Meereen.” He exclaims, unable to comprehend Varys logic, his hubris, his warped version of events that seem to be designed to place himself at the forefront of all of Daenerys’ triumphs and accomplishments, to diminish, if not extinguish entirely, Daenerys’ own significant contribution to the incredible woman she became.

Varys shrugged as though all of this was meaningless, as though he truly believed that Daenerys had succeeded in nothing without him.

“She was nothing in the West.” He said simply, as though that justified it.

“She wasn’t even really looking West at that time. She was trying to keep the peace in Meereen, to stop the masters from forcing her people back into chains.”

“A noble goal I’m sure,” Varys replied condescendingly, “but not a goal that one who desired to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms should have been focusing on.”

Tyrion did not know what to think. What to say. How to respond to that, so he changed the subject to something else that was concerning him.

“You’re not worried about Jon? About how he is handling things? You saw him threaten those Northmen when we were at Dragonstone, Varys. You’ve surely noticed how he has been on this ship. Are you not troubled by how he is reacting?”

“No.” Varys says quickly. Too quickly.

Tyrion frowns up at him.

“You were tremendously worried about Daenerys when she was acting far less mercurial than Jon currently is.”

Varys brow furrows, and his nostrils flare slightly. Tyrion wonders if he touched a nerve somehow.

“Jon can be managed. Daenerys could not. Because Jon has something to lose, his family. Daenerys didn’t have that to reign her in. And Jon values duty above all else. Daenerys didn’t value duty that way.” He sounds so sure of himself. So convinced of his own rightness.

“No, Daenerys valued people. All people. She valued loyalty.” Tyrion says defensively.

“And look where that got her.” Varys replied nonchalantly.

“Varys.” Tyrion says reproachfully, incredulously. He feels impossibly sad at Varys sudden indifference towards the woman that he himself had loved, and admired so very much.

But Varys looks unrepentant.

Tyrion is astounded, dazed, confused. Angry as well, truth be told. He doesn’t want to talk to him anymore. He doesn’t want to hear any more.

He walks away slowly, shaking his head and beginning to rethink everything he thought he knew about his oldest friend.


	9. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we arrive at Winterfell...
> 
> I know a lot of people have their own ideas / opinions / wants on how this should go down, and that is fine. But this is the way I have always intended to write this chapter. I hope you find some satisfaction in it at least.
> 
> Also, I would like to thank very much NotReadyForPrimeTimeEmmy for their immeasurable help and insights on the one plot point (that had to be decided going in to this chapter) that I had yet to settle on one of two options of. So, thanks very much xx
> 
> And thank you too, to everyone who commented on the last chapter. You all are amazing, and really make my day :)
> 
> Happy reading

**_Tyrion:_ **

Their arrival at White Harbour is solemn and silent.

Jon is still uncommunicative, though Tyrion senses an undercurrent of anger, of barely concealed rage fused together with the grief that he is feeling. He is taut, stretched with it. His face and body tense and strained. His words, when he does speak them, come out strangled as though he is holding something back. Something that will soon be unleashed.

The ride to Winterfell is just as chilling. Almost foreboding. 

Jon rides up ahead of the rest of the party. Alone, and removed.

Motionless. Still. He stares forward the whole time, looking neither left nor right.

Tyrion cannot help but compare this to how different it was the last time they had ridden this road.

Jon and Daenerys had ridden side by side, and Jon had appeared to be in constant motion. Pointing out things, leaning over towards Daenerys to say or describe something. It had seemed that every mediocre mountain, or plain outcropping had been worth Jon detailing or narrating to Daenerys. And each had been worth her winsome laughter in response to what he had said, followed by him returning a wide, bright smile at her laughter.

Tyrion sighs to himself wistfully. It hurts to think of that time. But it is also nice, in its way. It is nice to have memories of Daenerys so happy. He had never seen her so full of bliss as she had been with Jon. He had never seen her so enraptured and exuberant. He tries to take solace in the fact that she got to experience that. That she got to experience that before she died.

But Jon, oh Jon. He had met Jon before, of course, and he had been an angry, frustrated boy then. When he met him again at Dragonstone he had been an angry and frustrated man. But slowly, almost infinitesimally, he had seen him change. He wasn’t angry, he wasn’t frustrated. He was as enamoured and exultant as Daenerys was. They were wrapped up in one another, and ecstatically so. He had been happy for them. They both deserved it.

But then something changed again, he hadn’t known what at the time, though now he supposes he can hazard a guess. And Daenerys had become dejected, anxious and withdrawn. And Jon had gone back to being angry and frustrated. As he still is now. And Tyrion worries for him.

He also cannot help but keep thinking of what those letters had said. What this will mean for what they are trying to do. What this will mean for Jon.

He keeps trying to impress on Varys how important it is that Jon knows. That he knows what he is getting himself in to. What the odds against him are. But Varys continues to brush him off.

He makes some good points. Jon needs to grow into this new role that has been thrust upon him. A set back now could derail his confidence and his resolve. He needs to feel supported. There are other allies that can be found.

But, despite all this, Tyrion still can’t help but think that Jon deserves to know.

Varys is also worrying him. The way he had reacted the day he’d found the letters had disturbed him greatly. Upset, and angered him too. And Varys’ attitude has remained unchanged since then. He seems aloof, arrogant, conceited.

And that was not all. During the latter part of their voyage Varys had begun to, strangely, keep people away from Jon. At first Tyrion thought this was out of kindness. To allow Jon the time he needed to grieve and to be alone. But then he noticed that he was even attempting to keep Ser Davos away. Ser Davos, who Tyrion knows, is a great comfort to Jon. And that Varys was trying to obtain private audiences with Jon instead. All his attempts were rebuked most firmly. But Varys had still kept trying. 

As Tyrion looks around at the scattered, desultory and disorderly party he cannot help but think of the words he had pleaded at Daenerys right before she had taken off on Drogon to rescue the men beyond the Wall: “Without you, we’re all lost. Everyone. Everything.”

And he is terrified of just how right he might have been.

**_Jon:_ **

He can see Winterfell in the distance. They are nearly there. It takes everything he has in him but he pushes his grief down and allows his rage to swallow it. He cannot be seen to be grieving when he returns. He cannot be seen to be weak. Now is the time to assert himself.

He rides in first, ahead of the party and dismounts.

A huge number of people are gathered to witness their arrival. Members of the Household, Lords and soldiers who had been too injured to ride South. Jon can barely see any of them, doesn’t bother to notice them. They are not who he is looking for.

His eyes land on three people. Three people he once thought he knew. Three people he once thought he loved. Three people he once thought loved him. Three people who were quite possibly instrumental in the loss of the one person who really did love him.

Sansa, of course its bloody Sansa, approaches him first.

She reaches out to hug him but he takes a very definite, and purposeful step back.

She looks at him confused for a moment, but starts in immediately.

“Jon, what is going on? Bran said he saw you all returning. He said that the Dragon Queen is dead. Is it true? Have you finally seen reason? Will you be claiming your birth right?”

Her insensitive, petty questions are grating his already frayed composure. Apparently Tyrion is not the only one she told. If she is questioning him about it here, in the open courtyard, in front of all these people, then she has obviously been crowing about it since he left. He takes a deep breath in, picking over how best to deal with her, when she decides for him.

“Well, will you?” she asks again, taking another step closer to him and moving to grasp his arm.

He wrenches it out of her reach.

“Step away from me, Sansa,” he says, and his voice is gruff and laced with warning. “Step away from me and stay out of my sight. Do not look at me, do not speak to me until I have summoned you. Because if you don’t, I will not be held accountable for my actions towards you.”

Sansa gasps, and her surprise he can see, is genuine. But then her face morphs into something else, something false. A mummers version of hurt and fear.

“Jon,” she stammers in her equally false voice, yet firmly holding her ground. “You, you cannot talk to me that way, I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

Jon wants to roll his eyes at her act.

Arya steps forward and moves closely to Sansa’s side eyeing Jon warily.

Jon continues to stare at her threateningly. “I said, step away from me, Sansa.”

She doesn’t move.

“Move aside” he bellows.

Sansa continues her performance, adding a little tremble to her body and her voice as she says again “I am the Lady of Winterfell. I do not take commands.”

Lord Glover steps up then and addresses Jon “With respect, I must, on my honour defend Lady Sansa. This is her home and she is the Lady of the Keep. She should not have to tolerate being spoken to as such in her own home.”

“Stay out of this, Glover.” Jon growls, his eyes still boring into Sansa’s.

“I cannot do that. As I said, on my honour…”

Jon does not know what kind of political machinations Sansa has set in motion while he was gone. But he can see that she has been somewhat successful. And that was dangerous. He could not allow it to continue. And so, he has to make an example out of someone - has to nip this dissent in the bud before factions can form. 

Happily, for Jon, it was Lord Glover who had presented himself as the sacrificial lamb for this example to be made. There are few men Jon loathed more than Glover. He had always looked down on Jon, always disrespected him. And on top of that, the craven had refused the call to fight not once, nor twice, but thrice. He hadn’t answered when they had fought the Boltons. He’d hidden during the War for the Dawn, and he’d flatly refused to ride South to aid Daenerys against Cersei. 

Jon pushes Glover, who sought to defend Sansa, roughly to his knees in the dirt, and draws Longclaw.

Glover looks alarmed. As does Sansa.

“Would you like me to demonstrate for you, Sansa, what happens to people who go against my word?”

Sansa is gaping at him. But he can see something in her eyes. Something haughty. She doesn’t think he will do anything.

“Please,” says Glover, and his voice is trembling for real. “I was only defending the Lady Sansa. She is, as she says, the Lady of Winterfell, she deserves respect.”

Sansa, he can see is satisfied, smug. “I am the true daughter of the North. You cannot treat me, or speak to me this way. See, the people of the North will not allow it.”

Jon looks down scathingly at Glover, still on his knees on the dirty, frosty ground.

“Remind me Lord Glover, who takes precedence a Lady or the King?”

Glover gulps, “The King, of course. But…”

“And who is your King? Myself, or Lady Sansa?”

“But… but… this is a different situation... Lady Sansa is, she is... she is as she says, the Daughter of the North… it’s a different matter… it’s…”

Glover looks terrified, perplexed, yet also stalwart in his belief that he was right in speaking up for Sansa.

Jon knows he is one of the people who never wanted him to be King. Who would always see him as a bastard regardless of anything.

Sansa is looking boastfully at Jon, and simpering gratefully, at Glover.

Glover still looks torn. Jon can tell that he is hesitant to speak against Sansa. That he will not speak against Sansa.

He wonders to himself how he never truly, fully realized how manipulative, and dangerous Sansa could be.

“I’ll say this once more. Step aside, Sansa, and stay the hells out of my sight until I call for you else you will be getting that demonstration.”

“You cannot treat me, treat Northerners this way.” Sansa shrieks at him. “I am the Lady of Winterfell, and I will not be told what to do in my own home.”

Glover, still on his knees is refusing to yield. With Sansa standing up for him he must think himself safe. Jon supposes.

“Last chance, Sansa.”

She merely lifts her chin imperiously at him. As though daring him to defy her.

With one strong stroke Glovers head is removed from his body and both fall to the ground with a thunk.

Blood flies everywhere.

Sansa, who had refused to step aside, so confident was she that she would win this stalemate, screams, horrified, as much of it lands on her gown.

She looks up at him with wide eyes. She had never thought he would do it.

Jon stares back at her cold and unrepentant.

“Now step aside and remember that you would do well to heed my orders not to speak to, nor approach me again until I summon you.”

She is trying, he can see she is trying to keep up her haughty façade.

She looks around, but no one is willing to meet her eye. With no one else disposed to step up for her, not after that demonstration, she realizes that she must do as she’s been told right now.

She steps aside.

Jon knows he’d be a fool to think that is the last time she will try, that she has learnt any kind of real lesson here. But at least she is out of the way for now.

“Clean that up” he barks out to the people in the general direction behind him without looking back at them. “And remember what just happened. Remember what happens to people who speak out against their King.”

He starts moving forwards, forwards towards the one thing he had been waiting for this entire journey.

“Bran”, he says lowly, “I must speak to you, immediately, now, alone.”

Sam, who Jon hadn’t even noticed in the crowd, moves forward, a little grey in the face and goes to help move Bran’s chair.

Jon looks at him coldly, he has still not forgiven Sam for the way he told him about his parents. For the things he said about Daenerys. Same as he has not forgiven himself for not defending her to Sam when he said those things.

“I do not want, nor need your help, Sam. Leave us. No one is to disturb us.”

Sam looks terribly upset, but Jon couldn’t care less about that.

He wheels Bran into a room by himself, closes the door tightly, then turns Bran to face him. He kneels down so that he can be eye level with him.

Bran looks at him impassively. Jon looks for any trace of his energetic and compassionate baby brother, for that is who he needs to speak to now. Not whatever it is that Bran has become.

“Bran, Bran, please, please tell me you know. Tell me you know who did it.”

“Who did what?” Bran answers disinterestedly.

“What do you mean ‘who did what?’ Who did it, who killed Daenerys? Who poisoned her?” he demands, his voice cracking with a rending mixture of grief and anger.

“I don’t know.” Bran replies simply.

“You don’t know. You don’t know. What do you mean you don’t know? How the fuck can you not know? I thought you could see everything?” His voice is raising with fury and a building sense of hopelessness. 

“I mean I don’t know. I cannot see it.”

Jon flies into a rage at this and begins pacing the room like a wild animal. “How don’t you know? How can’t you see? You claim to know the biggest secrets of the realm but this, _this_ , the one thing I actually _want_ to know and you say you do not know? How? Why? What are the point of your visions if they only hurt people and cannot help?”

Bran is entirely apathetic to Jon’s wrath. He answers calmly, and slowly.

“My power to see comes from the Old Gods. Their power comes from the Weirwood trees. Wherever there are Weirwood trees I can use them to harness my power and see. When the Targaryens first conquered the Seven Kingdoms they did all they could to assimilate and integrate within Westerosi society and norms. Westeros, by and large, follows the Seven. And so, the Targaryens took the faith of the Seven as their own. As a show of commitment, and good will for the Septons they removed all the Weirwood trees both from Dragonstone, their ancestral seat, and from Kings Landing where they ruled from. There are no Weirwood trees there, and so, I cannot see those places.”

Jon cannot breathe. Cannot think. He is beyond devastated. He had been holding on to this, this one, singular hope for so long. This hope that Bran would be able to tell him what had happened to Dany. So that he would finally be able to bring about justice for Dany. But it seems he will not.

He can feel himself falling into despair. This had been the only thing getting him through, the assumption that Bran would be able to see and that he would be able to bring a slow and painful death down on the person who killed Dany.

But now he is right back where he started. Lost, confused, and suspecting everyone.

He takes some time. He needs it. He takes some time to breathe and try to come back to himself. But looking at Bran, sitting there, so unfeeling, so uncaring, he can feel his rage returning.

“Why the fuck did you even tell me about my parents?”

Bran stares at him, unblinking, “You needed to know.” He responds emotionlessly.

“But why, why did I need to know? I didn’t want to know. I was happy. I was so happy. I was happy for the first time in my fucking wretched life and you ruined that by telling me.”

“You wanted to know your entire life.”

“When I was a child maybe – what child doesn’t want to know where they came from? If they were loved? But at the time you and Sam told me, I had much, much larger concerns. And frankly, it wasn’t something I was even thinking that much about anymore. I certainly didn’t _need_ to know.”

“Your mother died for you – her last thoughts were how to keep you safe, how to protect you. You don’t think she would have wanted her son to claim what was his.”

“Dany’s mother died for her – her last thoughts were of how to keep her safe, how to protect her. Don’t you think she would have wanted her daughter to claim what was hers?”

“But it was never hers. You are older, you are a man, you are her brother’s son. That makes you the heir not her. You needed to know that.”

“It was never mine. She had worked for it, suffered for it, strived for it. Lived with that responsibility her entire life. That makes her the heir, not me. I didn’t need to know. I didn’t want to know. And I still don’t want it.”

“That’s not how succession works and you know that. You knew you were the true heir.”

He wonders why Bran keeps hammering this point home. It seems designed only to taunt him. As though Bran is reminding him, over and over that yes, he was fully aware of the repercussions and consequences of the truth, but he had told anyway.

He cannot handle being in the same room with Bran any longer. Not when Bran seemingly cares about nothing, feels for nothing, and all he can do right now is care, and feel. The contrast is too great, too imposing.

He walks out without a word or a backwards glance.

Ser Davos is waiting for him outside the room. He takes one look at him, can obviously see the state he is in, and pulls him gently into another room and closes the door.

“What is it lad? Did he tell you what happened? Did you get the answers you needed?”

He sits down heavily and rests his head in his hands shaking his head slowly.

“He doesn’t know. He can’t see there. He can’t see Dragonstone. He can’t see Kings Landing either. So I still don’t know anything. I don’t know if it was Cersei, I don’t know if it was someone else, someone else who did it because they knew the truth about me. I don’t know anything. He can’t tell me anything.”

He begins to sob, quietly. It’s a relief. He’d remained stoic, not allowing himself the luxury of this release on the road to Winterfell, he’d needed to appear strong. But here, with Davos, he knows he can allow himself to feel the weight of his misery once again.

Davos sits down next to him and places a hand on his shoulder in comfort. They are silent together for a long time. Gods, he has no idea what kind of state he would be in if he did not still have Davos.

After a time he raises his head and bemoans desolately “One of the many things that kills me about this is that I’ll never know where they laid Dany to rest. I’ll never be able to go there, to visit her, to talk to her, to pay my respects, to tell her how much I loved her.”

“Oh, lad,” Davos sighs, “That woman knows you loved her.”

Jon looks at him sceptically.

Davos chuckles a little, but it’s not a happy sound. “Trust an old man on this. I know what a woman looks like when she knows she’s loved, and believe me, Daenerys knows you loved her.”

“Not towards the end… not when I… when I pulled away from her… not after the way I let these people treat her… not when…”

“Even then,” Davos cuts him off before he can fall down the bottomless well of self-loathing he has taken to calling home.

“Even then she knew. She may have been hurt, and she may have been upset, but I can promise you that she still knew you loved her. And by the Gods, it was clear as day that she still loved you.”

He nods, slowly, sadly, “She did still love me, she loved me so much, and so well. More than anyone had ever loved me. She was a Queen, the last damned Targaryen, basically a goddess on earth and she loved me. She thought I was a bastard and she loved me. She didn’t care. It never crossed her mind. She never even bought it up. She only saw me. She only saw who I was, and she decided that that person she saw was worthy of her love.”

“And you were, you are worthy of that love, Jon. Don’t doubt it. She was a just woman, a kind woman, but she also knew what she wanted and wouldn’t settle for less. If she wanted you, which she did, it was because she knew you to be the best.”

More tears flow freely at Davos’ words.

“She died thinking I didn’t love her” he moans out painfully, his voice cracking and his breath halting.

“There, there, son, breathe. Go on, you can do it. That’s it. And let me hear no more of that. I wouldn’t lie to you. Whatever happened, that woman knew you loved her. I am sure of that as I am of anything.”

Jon wants to believe him so desperately. But he’s not sure he ever will.

“And don’t fret about where she is resting, son. You saw how her people cared for her, loved her. You can be sure that they did anything and everything imaginable to find somewhere right, and special, and peaceful for her.”

He nods, for that, he knows, without a doubt is true. Dany’s people would have moved mountains, and drained seas if it meant finding the perfect resting place for their beloved, their chosen Queen.

“And all you need do is reach out and ask them. You’ve already sent one letter to Meereen. Once this is all over and you send the other like you promised you would you can ask them where she is so that you can visit her.”

“They might not tell me” Jon gasps out dolefully, “Not after the way they were treated here in the North. Not after seeing the way I let the people here treat her. They’re probably angry, and rightly so. They might fear me shaming, sullying Dany’s memory somehow by going to her. And that is something they would never allow.”

“Don’t think that way, Jon. Try to put it out of your mind until it comes to pass. But I don’t think it will. Her people were loyal, respectful. They knew she loved you. I’m sure they would tell you based on that alone. They would never begrudge her being shown love. They would never keep love away from her.”

Jon can see the sense in what Davos is saying, but he knows these thoughts, these worries will still plague him.

“There’s something else we need to talk about, son.” Davos voice has returned from comforting, to resolute.

Jon looks up at him dreading what this might be.

“You need to, at the very least, be seen as having your family on your side in this. It needs to look like you have their support.”

His mood shifts instantly from self-pity and grief, to incredulous anger.

Davos senses this immediately and continues talking calmly before Jon can cut him off.

“I know you hate politics lad, but this is just the way of it. The Starks have been the most respected family, the leaders of, the North for a long time. And while you may be the King of the Seven Kingdoms, right now, the only Kingdom you are holding is the North. And it’s not in good shape. You know that. You need to be seen to be cooperating with your siblings… cousins.”

Jon is shaking his head furiously.

Davos places a hand on his arm to stop him and looks him right in the eye.

“I thought this is why you were doing this. To protect them. To protect the North.”

He sighs, “Aye, that is why I am doing it. The North is my home, and I’ve sworn more than once to fight for it, no matter the odds. And, yes I want to protect my cousins. Ned Stark besmirched his honour, and lied his whole life to protect me. The least I can do to repay that debt is protect his children. But what they’ve done, Davos, the people they’ve become. I can’t love them anymore. And I cannot let Sansa get away with what she did. She broke an oath, Davos, a sacred oath. And she broke my trust. How can I possibly work with her when I know I cannot trust her? When she has proven that?” His voice had risen louder, and gotten harder and more livid with every word spoken.

But Davos continues soothingly, “I never said you had to actually work closely with her, with any of them, son. I just said that you need to make it seem like you are. Behind closed doors you can say and do and think whatever you like about them. But in front of everyone else, you need to appear to be united.”

Jon can see the wisdom and truth in these words, as much as it frustrates him. He nods curtly, indicating that he understands and that he will do as recommended.

Davos smiles back at him proudly.

“I’m glad you agree. It’s an unfortunate truth, but many here, perhaps far more than you realise, look to Sansa for leadership. She’s Ned Stark’s oldest child after all, and once you’ve taken the Seven Kingdoms she will have to be Wardeness of the North. Hells, Even Daenerys realized that.”

“What?” Jon asks, completely turned around by the sudden shift in topic.

Davos looks at him fondly.

“Do you really think a woman like Daenerys would have put up with even a tenth of the petty bullshit your sister threw at her if she didn’t know that she had to at least appear to maintain some semblance of a working relationship with her? She knew the North would only fall in line under a Stark, and she knew Sansa would have to be that Stark, so she let a lot of things go that she ordinarily wouldn’t, and shouldn’t have had to.”

“She shouldn’t have had to at all” Jon says angrily. “She said she would name me Warden of the North. Why would she have even been considering Sansa when I was here, and she knew I was loyal to her?”

Davos looks at him, forlornly, “Oh, son, I think you know why she stopped considering you for Warden of the North a long time ago.”

Jon looks at him, heartbroken, and still a little confused.

“She was hopeful for a very different position for you.”

Davos’ look is pointed, and full of sadness. And finally, Jon understands.

Much later, when he has had time to come back to himself, he summons Sansa and Arya to his solar. He wants to get this over with.

They arrive, Sansa looking sullen and petulant at having to answer a summons, and Arya showing no expression whatsoever, as has become the new normal for her.

Sansa, as expected, rounds on him immediately.

“What in the hells was that in the courtyard this morning, Jon? Why would you do that?”

He glares at her coldly.

“When Kings are disrespected the ones responsible are punished. He would not acknowledge my absolute authority as King. And that is what you wanted wasn’t it? For me to be King? Isn’t that why you told?”

Sansa sniffs at him, “I didn’t think that you’d…”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” He cuts her off harshly.

“You have to explain yourself to me. You broke an oath. A sacred oath, Sansa. You swore. You swore to me. And now Daenerys is dead, and I cannot rule out that the truth about who I am getting out is the reason behind that. I do not have to explain myself to you. I can barely stand the sight of you.”

She doesn’t even have the integrity to look a little shamed at this.

“How dare you? I…”

“No, no,” he cuts her off again, he’s sick of her talking. “You fashioned this situation and now you will play your part in it. Both of you will. The North needs to unite, it needs to see us cooperating even if I will never cooperate with you again.”

“So,” he continues menacingly, “from now on you will sit silently and agree with me. On everything. You will do as you are told, and nothing more. Is that understood?”

“You cannot tell me what to do.” Sansa seethes. “I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“And I am Aegon Targaryen,” he says, even though it feels wrong, and uncomfortable to say it. “Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I outrank you Sansa. In every conceivable way. You will do as I say or you will not like the consequences.”

She switches tacks then, and looks at him imploringly.

“I was just trying to protect the North, to protect our family. Our pack.”

Jon scoffs at this. “I was never part of your pack, not really. Only for a little while, and only when it suited you. Only when you needed something from me. You spent the rest of the time undermining me.”

“But I don’t care anymore. You’re not my family. I’m not a Stark. I thought I wanted to be. All my life I wanted to be. But seeing what has become of the Starks, of you two, I am proud to say that I am not one.”

“But speaking of the pack, can you not see what has become of the North? How isolated it is? We’re basically a month and a prayer away from starving. Likely all because you couldn’t keep your damn mouth shut.”

“When your father used to say ‘when winter comes the lone wolf dies but the pack survives’ do you really think he was only talking about you lot? About the Starks? Lord Stark was smarter than that, unlike you. He wasn’t selfish, unlike you. I doubt that was only what he meant at all. I think he was speaking broadly, metaphorically.”

“I think he meant that when winter comes everyone must unite to survive. Everyone, all the Kingdoms. And look what’s become of the North. It is alone, isolated, we have no allies. Winter is here. We are the lone wolf. And we will not survive. Not at this rate.”

Sansa and Arya both look somewhat afraid at this. Probably because they can see the truth in it.

Arya tries to change the subject. She reminds him she always loved him like a brother. That she still does.

“Maybe once. Maybe once you loved me, and knew me, and I you. But I no longer know you. This cold, judgemental, hardened person you have become is nothing like the open, caring, little sister I once had who wanted to make friends with everybody.”

“I’ve learnt not everybody can be trusted.” She says, her voice hard.

Jon rolls his eyes at her.

“And how did you learn that? By never speaking to anyone? By making your judgements ahead of time? Before you even met people? I understand your reservations to trust complete strangers. But Daenerys and her people, I bought them here, I knew them, I trusted them. That should have been enough for you.”

“I say I don’t know you anymore. Well, you don’t know me at all either. You told me to discard Daenerys after she and her people had saved the North and our home. When you knew I’d sworn myself to her. When you knew that I loved her.”

“Arya kille…”

“Arya never would have had a hope in hells of getting anywhere near the Night King if Daenerys and her people had not been here to fight them off. That is just a fact, Sansa.”

He looks back to Arya, “And you knew that, and yet you still told me I should discard Daenerys after she and her people had saved the North and our home. If you knew me, you would know that I would never go back on my word. That my whole life, being true to my word has been of great importance to me. And you wanted me to throw it away like it was nothing. You either don’t know me, or you wanted me to be someone other than myself. Both situations are unacceptable.”

He fixes them both with a firm look.

“You are my cousins, and you both, and Bran, are the last of the Starks. I understand that we must be seen to be working together. But make no mistake. It will all be nothing but an act. I do not, and cannot trust you. But I also know that once I have taken the Seven Kingdoms the Northerners will still want a Stark in charge of their region, it will provide them with a sense of safety, and continuity. So you both will fall in line and play your roles. But everything and anything you do will be under _my_ terms. Will be as _I_ tell you to do.”

“Six kingdoms” says Sansa sharply.

Jon turns to look at her, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

“Why would the North need to be an independent Kingdom with a Northerner on the Iron Throne?”

“It doesn’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne. The North is independent. It’s ours. We fought for it, and we won. We won it back. We deserve it” Sansa’s voice is grandiose, as though she is addressing a large crowd of avid followers. Jon wonders idly if she practices these speeches in front of her mirror imagining just that scenario.

“I was named King in the North. The people of the North were happy to call me King then. They should be just as, if not more satisfied to call me King when it is of all Seven Kingdoms.”

“We said we would never bow to anyone else again. It doesn’t matter who is on the Throne. We will not bow to it. We said we would kneel to no one else ever again. The North must always belong to the North. We fought for it. We won it back. And it is ours.”

“Yours you mean” Jon says with sudden, icy clarity.

“Excuse me?”

“You think you would be named Queen in the independent North?”

“Of course I would. Who else would be? I am the oldest living Stark. I deserve it. I deserve to be Queen. I’ve earned it. I’ve suffered…”

“So that is why you told? I’ve wondered. Gods knows I’ve wondered what made you break a sacred vow. Of course it’s not because you think I would make a good King. You’d already made your thoughts on my abilities at that abundantly clear while I was King in the North. And I’d be stupid not to believe that a part of it wasn’t because of your irrational hatred of Daenerys. But this, this was the real reason wasn’t it, Sansa. You wanted to force my hand into taking the Iron Throne so that you would be left as the next logical person to be Queen in the North. That was what this was all about wasn’t it? Your devious scheming. Your lust for power. Your need to control everyone, and everything around you. Your delusional notions that you are always right and everyone else is wrong. Your petty need for adulation, for everyone to bow to you and call you Queen. You disgust me. You sicken me. You destroyed the best chance Westeros had because you selfishly, narcissistically believed that _you_ were its best chance. I cannot even fathom the twists and turns your mind must have had to make for you to believe that as the truth. For you to genuinely believe that. You’re deranged.”

His voice is dangerously low, Sansa should be more afraid. But she is too stupid for that.

“You broke an oath, Sansa. A sacred vow made under a Weirwood tree. If anyone else in the North knew this you wouldn’t have a single supporter because they would know that they cannot trust you, conniving snake that you are.”

“Which is why you will never tell them.” Says Sansa, pulling herself up to her full height and looking down her nose at him. It sounds very much like a threat to him. But he is done with her petty threats.

“Oh, you mean like you swore to never tell anyone about who my true parents are?”

His hands are clenching and unclenching so tightly into fists that the creaking sound of his leather gloves can be heard loudly in the room.

“If you do not fall in line, and fall quickly, Sansa I will tell them. I will tell them all. Don’t doubt that I will.”

“They won’t believe you.” She says, though he can tell she is, at least a little, trying to convince herself of this.

“They would never believe you over me. I am the Lady of Winterfell.”

“And I,” Jon thunders, “Am the Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. I think their choice of who to believe will be fairly easy to make.”

Somehow, somehow, she still remains unrepentant.

“I did it to protect us, our family. You can’t threaten me. I should rule the North. The North will not stand for you treating me this way. I am the La…”

“Yes, you’re the Lady of fucking Winterfell. Say it one more time. I don’t think we all quite got it the first thousand.”

“That’s because I am the Lady of Winterfell. I deserve the North. I am my father’s oldest child, the North is mine. I…”

He can hear her voice harping on in the background, the same old tune with only slightly different variations and he is suddenly, absurdly reminded of Lord Commander Mormont’s old raven. That strange, annoying bird that would crow for corn and could say little else but that. Sansa sounded exactly the same. Demanding and repetitive. And fucking, fucking annoying.

He tunes back in.

“I deserve to be heard. I know what I am doing. I deserve to rule. You should be grateful to me but you’re not. You should be thanking me, but you’re not. I did this for us, for the North, for our family. This is not how you should be reacting.”

“You played with my life for your own gain. You wanted to make me your puppet? Well, you made a mistake. Once I win this I will be King of the Seven Kingdoms, and you’ll be nothing more than a footnote in the history of my life. You handed me the keys to this Continent and you were so blinded by your own schemes, your own sense of superiority that you didn’t even see it. I am the person people look to now. And no one, no one is going to go against me, or tell me what to do. Least of all you.”

Sansa scoffs at him, though he could tell she was getting a little afraid. “You mean to rule alone, as though you even can?” she says sarcastically, derisively.

“Oh, but Sansa,” he said, his voice absolutely dripping with a saccharine soothingness as he advances on her slowly. “This is exactly what you wanted. You said I would make a good ruler, better than Daenerys”

He runs a hand down her cheek in a deceptively gentle manner. It would have looked like a sweet gesture, a caring gesture were it not for the menacing glint in his eyes, the barely restrained fury in his taut muscles.

“I wonder if you are considering now whether you miscalculated, Sansa?” He says lowly, his voice mock-curious and dangerous.

He then turns to Arya, “I wonder if you still think she is the smartest person you know?” 

“I don’t care either way. Both of your opinions mean less than nothing to me now.”

He turns abruptly then, and makes to leave the room.

“Jon,” Arya cries, “I love you, you know I do. But I won’t let you hurt her.”

He swivels on the spot to glare at her.

“I never said I was going to hurt her.” He replies his voice gaining back its fury.

“This, everything I’m doing now, everything I’ve been forced in to is to protect the North and your worthless lives. I don’t want to do it. But I will. For the sake of your father who protected me. But that is the only reason. Do not mistake it for affection. Do not mistake it for kindness. Do not assume it is because I want you both to live. It is my duty. Nothing more.”

He turns now to stare at Sansa again.

“But know this, Sansa. I _would_ love nothing more than to kill you for what you did. And, make no mistake, if I had even a shred of proof that what you did was the reason Daenerys was murdered, I would kill you myself with my own bare hands.”

He goes to turn once again to finally leave.

Sansa looks distraught, and pulls out one more act, one more desperate plea.

“You don’t mean that Jon. You don’t. You can’t. This is just _her_ again, getting in between us, getting in between our family.”

At that, he snaps.

He storms towards her and she backs up until she is plastered against the wall. He slams his hand forcefully against the cold stones just to the side of her head and leans over her threateningly.

“Oh, but I do. I do mean it, Sansa. You have my word that I mean it.”

He looks her square in the eye, his face filled with complete disgust. He can sense her trembling.

“And unlike you, I _always_ keep my word.”

Later that evening Jon gathers everyone in the Great Hall. There are some things he needs to clear up.

The people, as usual, are grumbling, complaining, gossiping. About what he did this morning to Glover. About food shortages. About the state of their homes and the North in general.

Jon stands and silences them with a look.

“Now that everyone has gathered I will address you all. I have much and more to say, and I expect you to listen to, and heed every damn word of it.”

“When I first arrived back here from Dragonstone with Queen Daenerys and her armies I lied to you all.”

He cannot be bothered taking in the tone of their reactions.

“I told you that I had a choice to keep my crown or protect the North, that I chose the North. This was a lie. Queen Daenerys had already pledged herself, her dragons, and her forces to fight the Army of the Dead before I bent the knee. I bent the knee to her after, on behalf of the North because I could see what a gift she was to Westeros. What a selfless, good, kind, compassionate woman she was. I knew she would be a good Queen for all of us. And I wanted the North to have that kind of Queen. One we could trust. One we could rely on. One who would aid us, not because it was her duty as Queen, but because she genuinely cared for people.”

“I am deeply ashamed that I lied. In doing so, if she had been a lesser woman, I would have lost Queen Daenerys’ trust. But I felt like I had to, because your allegiance. The allegiance and respect of the North, the respect you had for me as your leader is a fickle thing. But this will be tolerated no longer.”

“I am ashamed, beyond ashamed at the way you all conducted yourselves and treated guests, allies to the North. Guests invited by me, your King. Guests who came to save your lives. Never have I witnessed such a disgusting display of ingratitude.”

“When I went to treat with Queen Daenerys the North was nothing more than a charity case. I asked everything of her, and had nothing to offer in return. The one thing I did have, the North as a Kingdom, well, you saw her forces, she didn’t actually have to negotiate for that if she didn’t want to – if she didn’t want to spare lives and mitigate the amount of fighting – she could have just taken it.”

“But I wouldn’t even offer her that. I wouldn’t because I knew how you would all react. And yet, once she saw the true enemy, she offered to come anyway. For nothing, nothing in return. And that is what we gave her. Nothing. No gratitude, no respect, no trust. Worse than that, we gave her mistrust, ingratitude, disrespect.”

“If you want to grumble and complain about what the North looks like now, how hungry we are now, then you would do well to imagine and consider what state the North would be in if Queen Daenerys hadn’t come to our aid. Not that we would even be alive to grumble about it. Because it was only by the grace of her forces, her strength, that we survived the War for the Dawn.”

“Queen Daenerys had plenty of time to take the Throne. A group of men and I travelled from Dragonstone to North of the Wall, then all the way down to Kings Landing before heading back North. She could have taken the Throne from Cersei in that time. But she didn’t. Instead she came to our aid, because she believed me when I told her that the threat to the North was the real one. And so she knew that she should save and utilise all of her military strength here to defeat it. She knew Cersei would take back half the country while she was here, helping our ungrateful arses. But still, she put her own goals, her own dreams, her own war on hold to save us.”

“You all know by now who I am. What my real name is. That I am planning to lay my claim to the Iron Throne and take it from Cersei Lannister. Not because I want it, because I very much don’t. But because it is my duty. It is my duty and the only way I can see to protect the North and ensure that we survive through winter.”

“Now that my intentions have been made clear to you all. I ask you all, here and now, to swear fealty to me, as the King of the Seven Kingdoms”

All the Lords, one by one step forward and do just that. He can see that some of them are doing so reluctantly. Whether they are remembering the example he made of Lord Glover this morning and doing it out of fear he does not know. Nor does he really care.

Some of them may see this as their only chance for survival.

Infuriatingly, he sees more than one of them glance towards Sansa as though awaiting her intervention, approval, or opinion. Luckily, he can see that Sansa has enough sense to do nothing right now. That he has put the fear of the Gods into her. But Jon knows that it is only a matter of time before she will try something else again.

He would love nothing more than to banish her. Or to send her to the dungeon, or worse, for oathbreaking. But that would defeat part of the purpose of why he is doing this. He is doing this to protect his family. He may not want to protect them. And they may not deserve his protection. But it is his duty to protect them. For their father who protected him. Yes, it is his duty to protect them. As much as he hates that it is.

Once everyone has sworn themselves to him they raise their swords and cheer, and shout.

‘They will stand by him for a thousand years’

‘From this day, till his last day’

‘The King of the Seven Kingdoms’

The scene is familiar. He has lived it before.

But he feels none of what he felt before. No pride, no joy, no satisfaction.

Their words, their cheers, feel empty and hollow.

And so does he.


	10. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just a relatively short chapter to check in with Dany and co to see how they are settling in to their new life in Meereen.
> 
> A note: I do not write battle scenes. I do not have the talent for it, nor the inclination to attempt to develop the talent. I do not like battle scenes. They bore me. I didn't even like the ones on the show. They bored me. As such, I will be glazing over the battle aspects of well, battle. I'm sorry to those of you who like battle scenes - but if you like them you would hate it even more if I tried to write them because they would be terrible.
> 
> Thank you so very, very much to every lovely person who commented on the last chapter - you all are so fantastic

**_Daenerys:_ **

The first moon or so found Dany, and her people, settling back in, and finding their lives for themselves in Meereen.

Together, they had taken over a large part of the city, out towards the back which was ideal. Those who wanted to build homes for themselves built them, or had them built. But all of the Dothraki preferred to live in their camps, as was their way, and the area that they had all taken over was perfect for this for it had a large expanse of land behind it where the Dothraki could set up their tents, keep their horses and live-stock, and live the way they loved to live: out in the open, under the sky.

Many Unsullied broke off into groups of six or so and built rather utilitarian, but comfortable homes for themselves all near one another, for they were all, all of them, still very much a close unit.

Near the Dothraki camp there was a huge plot of land that had been designated for Drogon and Rhaegal. And her boys took to it immediately, happily making themselves a nest, lounging about, rolling and frolicking. Relishing in the heat of the blazing sun on their scales that they had so sorely missed while in the frigid North of Westeros.

As for Dany herself, she had had built, amongst the village of her people, right near her children’s nest, a lovely five bedroom manse. It was not overly extravagant, though nor was it modest. The rooms were large, and open, and airy. The hangings silken and flowing in calm, yet bright and welcoming colours. The furniture quality, yet comfortable and inviting. She absolutely adored it.

It had been a gift from the people of Meereen. She had tried to refuse at first, but they had insisted.

The Dothraki and Unsullied were paid in the same way that the Dragon’s Sons and the Free Dragons were, through the taxes collected from the citizens of Free Meereen, for they were now part of the force that ensured, and protected that freedom, and they worked with the armies most days training and drilling.

The Chosen Leaders had also insisted that Dany receive a stipend as well. For these were her people, and was she not too, dedicated to ensuring and protecting their freedom? Had she not been the one to make it possible in the first place?

Dany had been abashed and overwhelmed, and had tried to tell them it was not necessary. But they were unyielding.

The Chosen Leaders of Free Meereen were adamant that she accept this gift. Not only as a token of appreciation for what she had done before, but as a gesture of good will for all the work they would be doing together in the future. It was their way of saying that they wanted her there. That Meereen could be her home now.

She had been slightly uncomfortable at the overt display of generosity, claiming that the money could be used for a great number of other projects or things. But Marva had brow-beat her into accepting, saying first that she deserved it, and that no one, not even Dany herself, could convince the Leaders otherwise. And secondly, by pointing out rather bluntly, but accurately, that she had nowhere else to live, no other source of income, no other options. Did she not want a comfortable home for her child to grow up in?

At that point of common sense, she had acquiesced. She did need a home, her child, her precious babe would never, never know what it was like to not have a stable place to call home. She had vowed that to herself. And she did need to be able to provide for the babe.

It was true, she did not exactly have a vast store of wealth. She had poured all of her resources into returning to Westeros. And now those resources were as lost to her as her Westerosi cause was.

For the time being, Vitihi was living with her so that she might keep an eye on her and the babe. And Dany was becoming used to being gently bossed around nearly every minute of every day. With platters of food being pushed under her nose to eat. Glasses of cool, mint tea pushed into her hands to drink. And hands pushing and rubbing at her belly regularly. She could not find it in herself to be annoyed. She was just thrilled that her babe was receiving so much love, and care, and attention.

The best part of their new miniature (though in reality there was nothing miniature about it) neighbourhood, was that Missandei and Grey Worm had had built their own gorgeous three bedroom manse right next door to Dany. They had even erected an outdoor corridor connecting her solar with Missandei’s so that the two would always feel close, could always feel like they could reach one another on a moments notice. And the two houses shared a semi-sheltered, semi-open outdoor garden area with fragrant, blossoming flowers, and little fledgling fruit trees that Dany hoped to see grow strong and heavy bearing their fruit one day.

The pair break their fast there together most mornings, soaking in the sun both of their skins had missed so dearly all those dreary moons they had spent in Westeros. The babe would always be playful during this time and Missandei would place her hands upon her belly to feel the movement, and giggle with her delightedly.

Once, she had even managed to convince Grey Worm to feel, and the look on his face had had both her and Missandei in hysterics for the better part of the day. Every time they thought they had gotten themselves under control one of them would shoot the other with a look, an impression of the look on poor Grey Worm’s face, and they would lose it, be off in a fit of laughter again.

Dearest Grey Worm had taken it all in his stride. Though he came to her later in the evening alone and rested his hand upon her belly again. His face held no startled shock, alarmed astonishment, or breathless bemusement this time. Instead, he was as serious as she had ever seen him.

He looked her deeply in the eyes and said solemnly “This child, Daenerys Stormborn, this child, your child, I will guard and protect with my life. As I would you. As I would Missandei. This, I promise.”

She had burst into tears, clutching first his hand, then, as she broke down further, his entire body into hers in a strong hug thanking him over and over for his protection, for his love, for being her family.

With every precious movement from within her womb she thinks of Jon. How can she not? This is his babe too. And for all that had happened, and not happened. All that he had done, and not done. For all that she was uncertain of both his feelings towards her, and hers towards him… she misses him. Sometimes she hates herself for it, and sometimes she thinks maybe she doesn’t miss him at all. But she feels he deserves to be a part of this happiness, this joy. That he deserves to feel their child try out its tiny limbs for the first time within the safety of her belly.

So she thinks about him, and she worries about him. But she doesn’t know what to do about it. His letter had changed everything. She knows now she was a fool not to consider that the spider would have exposed and preyed on Jon’s honour, his need to protect his family and his homeland. But she really had never considered that Jon would fall into Varys plot with such determined gusto.

She has no way of knowing what is going on in Westeros. No one there who could inform her. She would never, _ever_ even consider sending one of her people back there to gather information.

No, not one of them will never set foot on that godsforsaken continent ever again.

She had briefly considered writing to Yara Greyjoy, explaining the situation, and hoping she might be able to provide her with some news. But this plan too, she dismissed. It was not that she didn’t trust Yara, for she did. The Ironborn woman had always been true to her word, and a dedicated supporter of hers. But she could not trust that her letters would not be intercepted, or fall into the wrong hands. And so, this was not an option.

Also, there were two other things holding her back from reaching out to Yara. Firstly, she had failed her. She had not, as she had promised, killed her uncle, and she had not taken the Seven Kingdoms meaning that she had not been able to follow through on granting the Iron Islands the independence that was part of their deal. She felt miserable about this. She knew Yara would make a phenomenal Queen to her people, but she, herself, had been unable to deliver what was promised to make that happen.

Secondly, she did not like the idea of spying on Jon. It felt dirty, duplicitous. He was a man grown. A good man. A smart man. She had to trust and believe that he was doing the right things, making the right calls, and not throwing himself into any unnecessarily dangerous situations. No, she would not spy on him. It felt wrong, and she had lost the right when she abandoned him to his current predicament. But that did not stop her from worrying about him, and also worrying about how she would know, how she would ever be able to find out when it would be safe to contact him to tell him about their babe? If it even was ever going to be safe?

She had hired two handmaidens, as well as someone to cook and clean for her. She had come to realise that there were so many things she did not know how to do for herself. For the longest time, she had always expected that she would be Queen, that she would not have to worry about such domestic matters. Truth be told, she feels rather useless in the face of having to work it all out now. But she has adapted to, and learned new ways of life before. She will simply have to do so again. And she can, she keeps telling herself. She must, and she can.

The Chosen Leaders vote and elect both Missandei and Dany to the Council of Free Meereen.

Dany is flattered, of course, for it is always nice to be freely chosen, but she tells them, that she must, unfortunately decline.

Her reasons are simple. She knows it may sound vain, but it is clear that the people of Meereen still hold her in, and look to her with a sort of reverence. She doesn’t want this to interfere with the free governance of the city, and she fears that any word she says will be given more weight than the words of others on the Council.

She does not want to offend them, so she explains this, as delicately as she can. Marva smiles at her once she is done explaining herself. She says that she sees the truth in what Dany is saying, at that she cannot deny that, even subconsciously, what Dany fears may come to pass. But she says it is a shame, for it is that kind of dedication to the protection of the freedom of the people and their choices that they want from members of the Leaders.

So Dany suggests that perhaps, instead, she could oversee their meetings – for she does still very much want to be involved. Besides, she does have some experience in the art of statecraft, and as much as she has had her share of failures in the past, she had learned from these, so she could, at the very least, help them navigate what to avoid and what strategies are unlikely to work.

The Council laugh at this and agree that recognising failure and learning from it are as important a skills as any, and say they would be delighted to have her take on that role. Though Dany makes it clear that should not be given, nor will she cast a vote on their agendas.

Missandei, on the other hand, does take up her elected role on the Council with pride and joy. She absolutely thrives in that environment and it warms Dany’s heart to see her dearest friend work so passionately alongside people who so strongly desire the same things for the people that she does.

‘And I would have wasted, and squandered all of that passion by having her in Westeros’ Dany thinks to herself with disgrace. She has taken to falling into bitter spells of melancholy sometimes when she sees her people happy, and prospering here in Meereen. She is glad to see them happy, of course she is, that is not what drives her sadness. No, it is the knowledge that she selfishly took them away from all this. Away from their homes, their own ways of life. All because she wanted something for herself. She knows she will spend the rest of her life trying to make it up to them, and doing all that she can to ensure their continued happiness in whatever way they choose to live their lives.

The Great Pyramid of Meereen has been converted into a Craft and Skills Centre where everyone is free to go and learn, and people are paid a small sum to teach and impart knowledge, skills, and craftsmanship.

Both Dany and Missandei are enamoured with the idea. That every person now has the opportunity to choose and learn the things they want, and not forced to do things based on someone else’s whims.

Missandei goes there most days and teaches languages. She is gifted at them of course, and a natural teacher. Her classes are most highly sought out. Missandei speaks nineteen languages, and languages are a valuable skill. Knowledge of them will aid people in conducting trade and expanding their own new and small businesses to other cities, opening their products up to other markets.

Dany is thrilled for Missandei, but once again she feels inadequate. In this new life she is beginning to realise that she may not have much to offer at all. And it is only a matter of time before the people of Meereen recognise this and rescind their generosity towards her. All of her people are valuable. All but her. The Dothraki and Unsullied work with the armies of Meereen, and take their turn conducting patrols of the city. Missandei is a valued and respected member of the Free Leaders and an invaluable teacher. But she herself, she brings nothing.

She has no real knowledge to share. Sure, she can speak a few languages, but nowhere near as many as Missandei, and certainly not as well, not with the same fluidity and skill. And she can hardly teach dragon riding, or how _not_ to roll your eyes during a meeting with terrible advisors.

But still, she wants to support Missandei, so she walks with her there every day she goes to teach, and wanders around marvelling at all of the skills being taught on display. Wondering whether she should take a class herself. How would she be at pottery? At cooking? At sewing?

She runs into Marva one day while she is pondering this inside the Craft and Skills Centre. Marva asks her, in her usual respectful, but frank way why she looks so gloomy. So Dany explains to her her predicament. How she would love to be useful, would love to teach as Missandei does. But she has no worthy skills to share.

Marva eyes her up in that way she has, assessing her almost. She looks fond, but also, a little frustrated and annoyed if Dany is picking up on her facial cues accurately.

“Can you read, Daenerys?” Marve asks blunty, “Can you write?”

Dany is somewhat taken aback by her tone, but answers honestly, “Yes, of course I can but…”

“Of course you can. Of _course_ you can?” asks Marva. “Yes perhaps of course _you_ can, but many former slaves cannot. They were never given the opportunity to learn. No master ever thought they needed to know how. And now, they want to learn. And, the children, they must all learn too. So tell me again of how you have no skills to share.”

Dany hangs her head feeling nothing but shame. She had had little and nothing growing up. But Viserys had at least taught her this. Reading and writing. Two things she had thought simple, and necessary. Nothing special. Two things she had taken for granted her entire life. Two precious, important things that were denied to so many.

“Oh, Marva,” she cries out, “I am so, so sorry. It was foolish of me, ignorant, selfish to not realise. To not see. To not notice.”

Marva pulls her in for a hug and then shakes her head at her kindly.

“I don’t mean to shame you, or chastise you Daenerys. I only mean to make you see. See that you can help in this way. But this is not the only way that you are helping, that you have already helped and you need to recognise that too.”

“I know you say Meereen took its own freedom. And it did. But it could never have done so without your support. It could never have kept it without you leaving support behind to ensure it was upheld. And the plans you are making, no one but you could inspire so many to fight for such a cause. Do you understand me?”

Dany gives a small nod, though truly she is still feeling mortified at her own blindness, her own selfishness.

Marva tsks at her, “I said, do you understand me? You are important. Nothing we are doing would be here without you, and nothing we are planning to do would work without you.”

“Now,” says Marva authoritatively, “Stop feeling sorry for yourself and go in there and teach some people how to read and write.” She gives her a wink, a smile, and a push towards the Centre, and then she is gone.

And Dany does just that. Every day that Missandei goes to teach languages, Dany goes and teaches reading and writing, and she feels better for it.

All her people are settling in well. Living their own, old lives, and integrating nicely into this new one. The women of the Dothraki are in high demand for their knowledge of healing. Healing is a skill in Meereen that many former slaves were adept in, but the Dothraki have different, and sometimes more effective ways which they share with the people.

The population is truly benefitting from the merging of cultures and practices.

The four armies all train together, and share their duties. Their ways and styles are different, but they learn much from one another and they have developed a real sense of comradery. It may not have worked in the North, but here in Meereen, true friends are found on the battle field it seems.

Amidst all this, Grey Worm, remarkably, and to her and Missandei’s constant delight, alongside his duties as the commander of the Unsullied, becomes a jewellery maker.

He had made Missandei a gorgeous and intricate pendant of a butterfly that Missandei adored and would never take off. Many people admired and praised it at the Council meetings, the Craft and Skills Centre, on the street, and inquired where she had gotten such a divine piece.

Missandei had proudly told them how she got it, and Grey Worm began receiving pleas and commissions.

He seemed embarrassed at first, but both women could see that he was secretly pleased, and excited.

He admitted to them one night while they were all out enjoying tea in their shared garden, “I never thought I would do anything with my life but kill. But this, this is something good, something nice. Putting something beautiful into the world, instead of taking something bad out of it. It makes me feel good. Makes me feel proud.”

They had both teared up at that.

He sells his pieces at the large markets that occur three days a week in what used to be the arena for the fighting pits.

There, people sell food, and wares. Others play instruments, or dance, or tell stories – the people who attend the markets listen and watch, and then when the performance is over, give the person a few coins for the entertainment they provide.

People have found ways to share their talents while also making a living. The economy – while still not grand, is picking up.

The masters held all the wealth, but they had none of the skills for it was the slaves that did everything for them. So, rather simply, the former slaves took their skills and did those things for themselves.

Marva explains that before the economy got on the track it is on now, the people operated on an intricate trade system. Someone who could sew would make clothes for someone else if they would, in return, fix their roof for them. Woven fabrics would be exchanged for medicines. Hot meals would be cooked in exchange for food that another had grown. And so on.

But the grumbling former masters, those who had not fled, had had to get their services still, and so, they had to pay. Thus, slowly money began coming into the possession of former slaves and circulating. It took time, but now it is solid, and only getting stronger.

The former fighting pits now also provide another form of entertainment besides the markets. The Dothraki found themselves rather taken with a sporting game a trader had spoken with them about.

It was ruthless, violent, and intense. All things the Dothraki loved to show their physical strength. But no weapons were used. Instead it involved a ball made out of pig skin that was, oddly, shaped something like an olive pit. To each game there were two teams, and the objective was to pass the ball between themselves and carry it over the opposing sides line that they were charged with protecting and holding.

The Dothraki excelled at the game. Their aim was well renowned and this served them well when passing and catching the ball. Their fearlessness too came into play as tackling opposing players to the ground, it appeared, was one of the ways to recover the ball to their side. It also allowed them to practice and implement their many strategy skills.

With only fifteen members to a team, and many more Dothraki, they soon had a union of teams to play against one another. On days when the old fighting pits were not being used as a marketplace, the Dothraki could be found there playing this game against one another.

In time, knowledge of this spread and the seats of the fighting pits were filled up once again with spectators, but to a very different form of entertainment. They came to watch the prowess and skill of the Dothraki as they played this game called ‘rugby’. The people would pay a small silver coin to enter and to watch and to cheer for their favourite team. And soon, mothers were inundated with requests from their young sons to learn how to play the sport as well. And so, the Dothraki began to train the young boys of Meereen – though in a much gentler version of the game that involved no brutal tackling to steal the ball, but instead, a tap on the shoulder.

Dany loved to watch the game. But no amount of cajoling from any of her bloodriders would have her pick a favourite team. She was there to cheer them all, she said.

But it was when it was a market that Dany had come across a wonderful artist. And she commissioned him to remake the Targaryen banner.

It was not a decision she made lightly.

She is a Targayren. She will always be a Targaryen. He children will be Targaryens. She is proud to be a Targaryen. But that banner, which is somewhat frightening to behold (though she supposes that that was the point), it is Westerosi thing. And neither she, nor her child, are of Westeros. Not any longer. Maybe she never was, and her child certainly will never be. It is time to do away with that specific part of the Targaryen history. So that she can begin to forge its present, and include her whole family.

And her family does not just include Targaryens. This has been proven time and time again. They have proven it time and again. Her people, her people are her family too. So she spends hours in talks with the artist to have it redone. Redone to honour all of her people.

She is excited and nervous on the evening that she reveals the new banner to her people.

They have all gathered near the edge of the Dothraki camp and she stands upon a crate, with Vitihi hovering protectively behind her lest she should fall, and addresses everyone.

“My friends, my family,” she begins. “It brings me such happiness to see you, all of you, enjoying and settling in to our new lives here in Meereen. Being here, with all of you, I feel at home. Truly at home.” She smiles widely at them, and sees them all smile back at her just as widely.

“You selflessly followed me to Westeros in my misguided quest to take back what I thought was my home. What I know now was never my home. Because my home is with all of you, wherever we all are, together. And you selflessly saved me, and my babe when you spirited me away from that land when the situation became too dangerous. I owe you everything.”

“During that fraught journey you carried with you the Targaryen banner. Not because you were following me because I was a Targaryen, but because it was, at the time, important to me. I felt as though I was reclaiming something for my family. But my family is right here.” She gestures with her arms out towards all of them. “It has always been right here.”

“That banner is a symbol of Westeros, and we have left Westeros behind forever to make our lives here. Targaryen will always be my family name. There is no escaping that, and I do not want to, I must try to be proud of my heritage in the same way that you all must too.”

“But my family is not just made up of Targaryens. Each and every one of you are my family. And so, I have had the banner redone, made over into the image of what I want the new Targaryen era to herald in.” She places a hand lovingly over her belly as she continues.

“An era that includes all of you, as my family, the way we have been for years now. The way I hope we will be for generations to come.”

“I hope you like it, and will bear it proudly. For it is no longer the Targaryen banner. It is the banner of all of us. For all of us.”

She unrolls the fabric then so that all her people can look upon it.

She truly hopes they like it, for she had spent much time with the artist on it.

It is a variation of the original banner, true. But there are many key differences. Instead of an austere, solid black background, with three bright red coiled dragons, she has mixed up the colour scheme.

Now, the background is a swirling, skilful mix of red and black, but mostly red. It calls to mind a bright red sunrise just as day is beginning to break through. Symbolising a new day, a new time for them all.

The dragons are no longer red, but instead each of the three is the colour of one of her children. Drogon, red and black is facing to the right. In one of his claws he holds the spear of the Unsullied. On the opposite side, facing to the left, is Rhaegal. Green and bronze. In one of his claws he holds the arakh of the Dothraki. And in the middle facing frontwards, is her beloved Viserion. Cream and gold. From both his claws scatter broken chains and slave collars. And on his chest, right where his heart would be, is a bright and brilliantly golden butterfly, for Missandei.

Instead of coiling to form a circle, the tails of all three dragons are intertwined. Winding around and around one another until they reach the bottom of the banner and spread out, so that their tails look like the trunk of a tree that has strongly and firmly taken root.

There is a deep silence as she looks upon the new banner and she begins to feel unsettled. Worried that her people may not like it. That it may have offended them somehow.

She turns to check and sees all of them, each and every one of her people kneeling before the new banner, looking at it with pride and admiration in their eyes.

Tears come to hers as she cries out “Rise friends, rise family, please. This is for us, this is for all of us.”

And then the cheers go up. She can hear calls of ‘Khaleesi’ of ‘Mhysa’ of ‘Daenerys Jelmazmo’. She revels in their joy. So pleased that they love this thing that she had designed for all of them.

Missandei drags her down from the crate to hug her. Completely ignoring the scolding of Vitihi to be careful with the Khaleesi.

They all celebrate long into the night.

Two days later, when she encounters the artist at the market she approaches him to hand him a bonus as a token of gratitude for how well received his work was.

But the man refuses to take it. He says that he should be thanking her. Word of the banner had spread and he has had more customers than he can handle, so many more that he has taken on two promising apprentices from the Craft and Skills Centre to help him fulfil the orders, of people from all over Meereen requesting their own miniature version of the banner.

She smiles widely at this, pleased that the city of Meereen has so warmly embraced herself and her people. He asks her, looking worried, if she minds him selling the design to other customers. She assures him most emphatically that she does not. That she is overjoyed that they would want it. And she insists upon him taking the bonus so that he might hire another apprentice from the Centre. That would be one more person in Meereen doing a job they wanted to, not one they were forced into.

As she wanders through the market, pleased and happy, she spots a little girl walking between the stalls with her tiny chest puffed out, proudly displaying a small version of the banner sewn on the front of her dress as a decoration. The sight of it fills her with so much hope, and love, and pride for her people, and for their future here. 

While all of this was going on she was, of course, also in talks with the Council of Meereen and her people on what their next steps should be. She had wanted, first, to retake Yunkai and Astapor. Seeing the prosperity and unity that Meereen had acquired because the time had been taken to establish proper leadership with a force of people dedicated to protecting that freedom her guilt and unease regarding how she left those two cities grew and grew.

They were in talks on how best to begin this campaign one day when a woman arrived. She was a High Priestess of the Red Temple in Volantis and said her name was Kinvara. She claimed that she had foreseen Daenerys’ actions in the Battle for the Dawn, and she was pleased that living had prevailed over the dead. That light had won. As she knew it would. As she knew it must. But she also said that she always knew that that battle was not the end, nor the entirety of Daenerys’ destiny.

She believed that Daenerys was destined to free all of the Lord’s people from the despicable bondage of slavery, to undo what her ancestors had done and bring freedom where they had bought only servitude. That she was the first in a new line of Targaryens who would protect human life, not profit from it. She implored the Council, and Daenerys herself to begin her campaign in Volantis.

“There are five slaves for every free man in Volantis, Daenerys Stormborn” she said “More than any other slaver city. You take Volantis and you send a message. You take Volantis and you free many and more. Then you will have those people behind you, beside you, as you continue your campaign across Essos. And you will have the power and backing of the Red Temple also, as we will mobilise to your cause and provide shelter and protection for those who cannot, or do not want to fight.”

She could see the logic in what Kinvara was saying, and was about to put the matter to the Council when Kinvara continued,

“Also, Daenerys Stormborn, Volantis will not be willing to lie down and surrender. Even against an army of the considerable size of yours. Not like some of the other cities might. Volantis is too proud. Too arrogant. They will need to see your full strength. They will need to see you on your dragon come to free and defend them. You need not burn anything, but the imagery alone of you flying in at the head of a great force whose only objective is their freedom will be powerful. And, if I am not mistaken, which I know I am not, it will not be long until it will be unsafe for you to do this for a time.” She said looking pointedly at Daenerys’, admittedly, very protruding belly.

Daenerys must admit that Kinvara has a point. Volantis is an ancient and arrogant city. It will, perhaps, be the most difficult to take. Perhaps it is best to take it first, before word of what she and her people are doing begins to spread. For they are also a wealthy city. If they give them time to prepare then they will do so. They have the resources to devise weapons against not only her people, but her dragons too. And, as loathe as she is to admit it, she will not be able to go with her army soon. In about a moons time it will be impossible, then for some moons after as she recovers from the birth.

They, as a Council, discuss this late into the evening. Going over every possible alternative and strategy. In the end it is decided that they will take Volantis first. Three quarters of the Dothraki, half the Unsullied, half the Dragon’s Sons, and only a quarter of the Free Dragons for while they are keen, and training well, they are still only a young army, and their primary function has been the protection of Meereen. Thus, the majority of them will stay behind to fulfil this role, with the remaining Dothraki, Unsullied, and Dragon’s Sons while the rest march on Volantis. Missandei insists upon armour being made to protect Daenerys atop Drogon, and Daenerys doesn’t even think to argue with her. He babe is too precious. It is a miracle. She loves it so very much. She would do anything to protect it.

They begin their march on Volantis a week after the decision has been made, giving them just enough time to organise provisions for all.

The battle is intense, but not as intense as she might have imagined. The Red Temple, it seemed, had already begun to covertly spread word of their arrival, and many slaves turn immediately against their masters when Drogon and Rhaegal swoop overhead roaring, when their massive forces arrive.

But still, it is a hard and difficult thing, battle. They lose many of their own. Though, eventually, the dust settles, and they are victorious.

She remembered saying to Jon that sometimes strength is terrible. And looking around Volantis now, she knew that she was right. Strength could be terrible. The strength the former masters had, the way they used it to subjugate, and remove free-will from human beings was a terrible use of strength. But the strength of her people, the strength to be able to come in to fight, and win, against the strength of the former masters… that, that was using strength for good. Seeing Dothraki healers applying a soothing salve to the chaffed necks of small children. Chaffing that had been caused by slave collars that they had worn all their lives, that had been removed forever this day. That was good strength. And she revelled in it.

They set up meeting halls where all can join. Marva and Missandei speak up on behalf of the Free Leaders of Meereen. They explain how they are doing things now. How they have their freedom. How they protect it. How they are prospering. How even many of the former masters are content with the new way of life. How they want to help Volantis achieve the same.

Some of the former masters, of course, refused to listen, let alone attempted to. When it became clear that they could not fight their way out of this. That they were outnumbered, overpowered, and would not win, many of them fell on their swords, hung themselves from the beams of their luxurious manses, drank a death drought.

Dany knew it was ruthless, but she did not have it in her to feel pity for those cowards who lived their lives of luxury on the backs of human suffering.

Former masters call out objections. Freed men and woman ask pertinent questions about how their lives will look now. How they will go on.

They spend three weeks in Volantis in meetings and talks. Setting up Councils and shelters. The Red Temple, as Kinvara had promised, is instrumental in this.

The governance of Volantis involved the election of three Triarchs. It is decided to keep this institution in place, as it will foster a sense of familiarity and continuity in such changing times.

Dany is elected as one of the new Triarchs. And unlike in Meereen, she does accept this position. Volantis is newly freed. There may very well be troubles, and issues to begin with. She assures the people of Volantis that she will fly to them on Drogon for every meeting. And it sounds like either a threat or a promise depending on whether it was a former master, or a former slave hearing it.

But in addition to this, three other Councils are set up. As in Meereen, they are made up of people elected by the people.

Marva wants to stay longer to help, but she cannot, and does not really want, to be away from baby Daenera for long. Another Free Leader Charsi, remains instead. He is smart, and strong, and has a good mind for solving problems. He, along with half the Dragon’s Sons, and half the Unsullied they bought with them, as well as a quarter of the Dothraki remain as well. To ensure, or enforce if necessary, the newly established peace. They have orders to return to Meereen in a moon provided that they have managed to establish a new form of protection for the freedom of the people. There are already many freedmen with fighting training stepping up, willing to train with her armies and take on that role.

And, just like that. Though really it was quite the exhausting ordeal. Volantis is free. The people call out their thanks, their gratitude, as her people begin their march back to Meereen.

Volantis was a landmark slaver city. She knows that word of what occurred here will spread. So, as foolish as it may be, on her way back to Meereen she makes a point of flying low over both Astapor, and Yunkai. To let them know that they will not be left alone. That they will be next if they do not surrender and abolish slavery.

She is pleased beyond belief when she spots Meereen on the horizon. It really does, somehow, feel like a homecoming.

She lands Drogon, and Rhaegal lands beside her. She strokes them both lovingly, and they chirp at her, nuzzling her hair and her belly making her feel loved in kind.

Once she finally returns home to her manse she lies outside on a chaise in the garden, stares up at the stars and places both hands on her belly. She must be over eight moons along now. And she can no longer deny what Vitihi has been saying for the past 3 moons. She is so large, and the movements are so constant and come from such disparate places that she knows she is carrying two babes.

Two precious children.

Made because she loved Jon Snow with all that she was.

Once again, for what feels like the thousandth, thousandth, thousandth time she hopes desperately that he is okay. That he will know them some day.

“I’ll figure something out, ñuha dōna riñar,” she whispers to the fluttering against her hands.

“I’ll make sure you know your Kepa. I promise you.”

“Muña se kepa jorrāelagon ao”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "ñuha dōna riñar" - "my sweet children"
> 
> “Muña se kepa jorrāelagon ao” - "mama and papa love you"
> 
> Thank you so, so, so much to Momo01 for asking their incredibly talented friend @dawnjester (on tumblr) to create the stunning piece of art that is Dany's new sigil. You both have no idea how much I love it, and love and appreciate both of you xx


	11. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now back to Westeros to see how things have been going there...
> 
> With regards to the timeline - the events in this chapter are happening at the same time as the ones in Essos in the previous chapter.
> 
> Thank you, so much, to the wonderful people who commented on the last chapter

**_Jon:_ **

Winterfell is crowded and uncomfortable.

Currently, it is housing the majority of the people of the North. What’s left of them.

Winter is truly upon them, and only Winterfell has the benefit of the hot springs running through the walls. Only Winterfell has the luxury of warmth.

Besides that, the landscape of the North is ravaged by years of fighting and war. Land is torn apart. Many, too many, homes have been destroyed beyond anything that they have the resources to repair right now.

Their food stores are low. This is undeniable. Indeed, low is a generous understatement. The North had spent the years prior to the arrival of winter, the years they would usually spend harvesting and gathering food, in endless war. And of what little they had managed to gather and stockpile at Winterfell, much of that had been damaged and destroyed when the Night King and the Army of the Dead came through.

Jon has put Sansa in charge of dealing with the issue of food scarcity. He’d hoped that it would keep her busy and out of his sight. Out of his way.

She’d taken it as an insult. Insisted that she was far too valuable to be relegated to overseeing the food stores. He’d scathingly told her that he thought she would be happy with the assignment given how _terribly_ concerned she was about the issue when Queen Daenerys and her people were guests at Winterfell. He’d assumed she’d be glad to deal with it now. And deal with it she would.

While Winterfell is crowded, the majority of the people are women, children, small folk. Not people who can fight. Not soldiers. Not the people they need to win a war.

Jon has taken for himself the Lords chambers. His Uncle’s old chambers. He had unceremoniously kicked Sansa, who had set herself up quite prettily there, out of them.

She had been furious. Exclaiming over and over how they were _her_ chambers because _she_ was the Lady of Winterfell. Gods, if he never heard the phrase ‘Lady of Winterfell’ uttered again it would still be too soon.

But, in the end, she had no choice but to relent. He was the King. He should have the grandest chambers. And he had reminded her again, not at all subtly, that he would not be tolerating any more of her insolence or insubordination. 

The Lords, Ladies, all of the people who now reside at Winterfell bow to him as he storms through the castle or the grounds. They call him Your Grace, and toast to his health and success at every meagre meal.

He hates it.

He hates all the respect being shown to him now. Nothing has changed expect his name. He’s still the same person. But they wouldn’t give him this respect before. Not for his own deeds. Not for himself. The only people that had ever really respected him as a King, as himself, were Ser Davos, Lyanna Mormont, and, of course, Dany.

He marvels now at their similarities. It is no wonder they were so drawn to one another. Both he and Dany had worked tirelessly for the respect of their own people regardless of their names. Her, in Essos, where no one cared that she was a Targaryen. And he, in the North, with a bastard’s name. And as far as he was concerned, they had both more than earned the right to that respect. But here, in the North, the people refused to respect Dany because of her name, while now, they were only truly respecting him because suddenly, he now had that same name. He found the hypocrisy, the unfairness of it all abominable.

Every night he retires to his chambers and reads a section of Dany’s diary, clutching the piece of dragonglass in his hand and missing her desperately. He has started from the beginning. Her story is horrifying, yet hopeful. Disturbing, yet full of dreams.

She had always, no matter how destitute things were, tried to find something small and pure and sweet to focus on. She had always tried to keep faith in herself.

He knows he should stop. That it is not healthy for him. But reading the diary helps him. It does. Reading her words make it seem almost as if she is there with him - _and Gods how he needs her right now_ \- encouraging him, supporting him, loving him like she always did.

He knows that might sound mad. For a while he worries about that. But he tries to disregard it. He would have been obsessively reading the diary even if he were still a Snow, just as he is reading it now as a Targaryen, and he wouldn’t have worried about what it meant for his mind then.

Though, he thinks morosely, if he had never found out that he was a Targaryen then he would probably not have to be reading her diary at all. For instead, the real Dany would be alive, and well. Warm, and safe in his arms – sharing her stories and her smiles with him herself.

But this does open his eyes to why Dany was always so cautious of who she let close, how she acted around others. This idea, this knowledge that he is now facing. That something he does today might be considered mad when, if he’d done the same thing last year no one would have thought twice about it.

People assume so much about others because of their names. As a Snow, people thought little of him, and the little they did think was usually negative. A bastard, greedy, grasping, depraved. People think his sisters honourable because they are Starks. When he knows they are anything but. And people were always watching and waiting for Dany to go mad. All because she was a Targaryen. Every innocuous thing she did could be twisted into seeming like the beginnings of a downward spiral all because of her name.

He knows he hasn’t even begun to get even a taste of what that overhanging cloud was like for Dany. And that only increases his awe at her. At her strength. And his sadness for her too. His sadness that she had had that weight atop her shoulders from the moment she was nothing but an innocent, new born babe.

They have been having regular, almost daily Council meetings. Something Jon loathes. Something else which only heightens his respect for Dany. How the fuck had she put up with all of the bickering? But they are also something that he knows are necessary. The North is in a dire state. And they need to get something done sooner rather than later.

And so, Ser Davos, Tyrion, Varys, Ser Brienne, Gendry, Sam, a select few major Northern Lords, Sansa, Arya, Bran and himself meet in the Council room to discuss and devise plans and strategy.

He does not want his cousins there. He does not trust them. But he is heeding Ser Davos’ advice. He knows he needs to be seen to be working with them. That they need to be seen to be cooperating. Even if they are not.

The meetings are anything but productive.

Varys begins the first one by announcing smugly that they have the tactical advantage thanks to Bran who can see what Cersei is plotting.

Here, Jon interrupts to say that Bran cannot see into Kings Landing.

“What do you mean Bran cannot see into Kings Landing? I knew he could not see what was going on at Dragonstone…”

Jon whips his head around to scrutinise Varys, and sees Tyrion looking at him just as suspiciously.

He seems to pick up on that.

“I know because I know that Stannis Baratheon in his fervent faith in R’hllor destroyed every weirwood tree on the island that had grown back since the Targaryens first removed them.” He says quickly. “But there are weirwood trees in Kings Landing. I know there are. They grew back there too”

“They did,” Bran responds in his emotionless monotone, “But when Cersei granted the Faith Militant of the Faith of the Seven undue power, they removed all semblance and symbol of any religion but that of the Seven. Weirwood trees no longer grow in Kings Landing.”

Varys looks momentarily distressed, but pulls himself together.

“Well, that is a set back of course. I was counting on… Well, never mind. Cersei is a fool. She will make a mistake. Indeed, she will make many. Which is why we must be ready for when she does. We need to talk about armies. Gather the support of fighting men.”

“The North is lacking in them I know, and we will soon have the support of other great Houses I have reached out to. But until then, we must think about bolstering our numbers.”

“I had thought we would have more. But since Daenerys’ armies deserted…”

One vicious look from Jon has Varys stopping that statement dead in its tracks. He can see that Tyrion is similarly glaring at Varys balefully.

Jon feels sorry for Tyrion. He cannot help it. He knows that Tyrion is true to his cause. But he also knows that he misses Daenerys. That he would rather be doing this with, and for Daenerys. And he cannot blame him. He would rather be doing this with, and for Dany too.

“What I mean to say is,” Varys backtracks “Since we do not have the support of Daenerys’ armies, where are the Wildlings? They are great supporters of King Jon. That much was evident on the night of the victory feast. We need them to fight with us. Where are they?”

It is Sansa who answers, somewhat snootily. Her chin held high in the air.

“I sent them all away as soon as you lot rode South.” Her tone is dismissive. “Back to where they came from. They do not belong here, and we do not have enough food to feed them, nor space to keep them.”

Jon is furious.

“The Free Folk” he says, emphasising their name, “earned the right to our hospitality, to our food and shelter when they fought for the North not once, but twice. We don’t know what state their homes in the lands beyond the wall are in now since the Army of the Dead took them over so completely. You had no idea what you were sending them back to. You could have been sending them to their deaths by starvation. By exposure. You had no right to send them away without my consent.” He thunders at Sansa.

She doesn’t even look bothered. When is she going to bloody learn that she really should look bothered?

Varys looks worried again. And says he agrees with Jon.

He suggests that they should call them back. They are supportive of Jon and would fight for him.

But in this, Jon refuses. He says they have already fought for his home once when they didn’t have to. They also defended it bravely against their mutual threat of the Night King. But he will not ask them to fight for him again.

Not now that they are fighting for the Throne and the Free Folk are not kneelers. They do not care about the Throne and he will not manipulate their support of him to get them to do so. Especially now since they have since been used and discarded so very badly by his own cousin.

Varys keeps trying to persuade him. Daily he tries. But Jon will not change his mind on this. It would not be honourable to rope the Free Folk into fighting another war that was not theirs.

Varys’ other plans involve getting Sansa to write to her family, Lord Aryyn in the Vale and the Lord Tully in the Riverlands asking them for their fealty and support.

Sansa grumbles at this, eyeing Jon disdainfully. She refuses to do so. Says they are _her_ family, not Jon’s’ and she will not do it. Not even when Tyrion tries to remind her, as gently as he can, that it is either this, or surrender to Cersei and throw themselves on her mercy if they want to survive.

Still, Sansa rebuffs the idea and seems resolute in her position.

But then, that evening, Jon catches Varys whispering to her in a corner of the Keep, and in the next meeting she rather cheerfully announces that she will write the letters after all.

Jon is impressed. Politics are not his thing. But whatever Varys said to her had clearly worked.

Sansa also manages to convince the Knights of the Vale to stay on at Winterfell. But, in this, Jon can tell that she has an ulterior motive. She wants them because she knows that they answer to her before they do to him. 

The Vale Knights are reluctant at first. They point out that they are of the Vale. That they should be in the Vale protecting Lord Aryyn. That they had been here long enough. They’d done their duty to the North.

Jon cannot help but agree, regardless of what this will mean for the war or the protection of Winterfell. But Sansa strong arms them, with her fancy words, and fancy promises into staying, at least until they hear back from Lord Arryn.

Reluctantly, they agree.

They do hear back from Lord Aryyn in good time. In his childish raven he says that he loves his cousin a lot. And if she thinks this is the right thing to do then the Vale Knights should stay with her.

Sansa is smug when she delivers the news.

Varys also tells Sam to write to the Citadel asking them to locate and make public the findings in the diary, as they are of great importance, and significance to the realm. Sam does so immediately.

After all that, they shifted their attentions to the Stormlands.

What should have been their obvious solution, Gendry, is not as straightforward as any of them would like, or had thought.

While Dany had legitimised him, it no longer holds now that she is dead. And besides that, having never taken the Throne, she never got the chance to make it official.

Jon says that he will legitimise him. But Tyrion points out that doing so would be next to meaningless.

Daenerys had the forces to ensure her choice would be accepted. Jon did not.

Bran dispassionately informs them that the Houses left of the Stormlands are currently busy warring amongst themselves as to who will be in charge, and that they would not be much help anyway.

Varys looks frustrated, but has to concede that they should shelve gaining the support of the Stormlands for the time being. At least until word has properly spread, and Jon has a sizeable enough army to enforce his orders.

They send an invitation to Lady Yara Greyjoy who, surprisingly, does come when summoned.

Though it is made immediately clear that she only came with two real objectives in mind.

The first is obvious when she storms right into the Council room, ignoring everyone else, and punches Varys square in the face.

“That,” she spits at him “is for failing so abysmally at your job, and in doing so, not protecting Queen Daenerys. What sort of pathetic excuse of a Master of Whisperers doesn’t even know when his own Queen is being murdered?”

Varys cannot speak in reply. He’s holding his nose which is gushing blood, and most certainly broken. Jon had heard the crack. Not that it appears that Yara would be particularly interested in his reasons or excuses.

She turns abruptly to face the rest of them.

Her second reason for coming is to reprimand them for burning her brother’s body as opposed to giving him a proper Ironborn burial at sea.

For this, despite the ups and downs his relationship with Theon was marred by, Jon apologises to her fervently. He tries to explain the scene following the Battle for the Dawn. How many dead there were. How little choice they had.

He can tell that Yara is not happy, but that she does understand.

“Well,” she says then, “now that that’s out of the way, why the fuck did you ask me here?”

Tyrion explains the situation. The whole thing. With Sam chiming in about the diary, and Bran merely giving an affirmative nod when his vision was mentioned. Once done, Tyrion asks Yara if they can count on her support.

Yara had laughed heartily, and for a long time. When she stopped and realised that none of them were laughing with her, that they were all looking back at her with serious, and expectant faces, she laughed even harder.

“Well alright then,” she’d said “Let’s say I humour you and pretend I believe this bullshit. Which I do not, by the way. Not at all. But let’s say I did. In exchange for my support I would expect the same things Queen Daenerys offered me. A dead uncle, and independence for the Iron Islands.”

Jon sighs, this isn’t his forte. He doesn’t want to be involved in all these politics.

It is Sansa who responds.

“Why on earth would the Iron Islands be granted independence? And why should you receive the same deal you bargained out of the Dragon Queen? You gave her ships which is why she agreed to your demands. What will you be offering to the North?”

“Again,” Yara is laughing, she clearly doesn’t believe a word of this is serious, “Were I to entertain your ridiculous notions, I would be providing the _support_ of my men and my ships in this fight.”

Sansa sniffs haughtily at her, “Well, that is hardly the same as being given ships now is it?”

“Actually,” Yara answers, her tone taking on a edge now in response to Sansa’s, “It is exactly the same as my ships are all still in my possession. I merely offered their services to transport Queen Daenerys and her people from Essos. She never took them from me. All she asked of me was my backing, and aid in transportation. And for that, she agreed to the terms I have presented to you.”

Sansa scoffs indignantly.

“And _that_ paltry offering is worth the independence of the Iron Islands?”

“It was to Queen Daenerys.”

“Well you are not speaking with your foreign Queen now. You are speaking with the Council of the _Rightful_ King of Westeros, Aegon Targaryen.”

Yara bursts out laughing again. “I’m sorry,” she says, sounding not the least bit sorry, “It just gets funnier, and more absurd every time I hear it.”

“If anything is _absurd_ ,” sneers Sansa, “It is the idea that the Iron Islands should have their independence. If any Kingdom deserves their independence it is the North.”

“And why is that?” Yara sneers back. “I would think that the North would be the last Kingdom wanting independence with a Northerner on the Iron Throne.” 

“It doesn’t matter who sits on the Throne.” Sansa practically screams. Jon wants to interrupt, knows he should before Sansa can get herself worked up again. He moves to, but it is too late. She has already begun.

“The North deserves its independence because we fought for it. We took back Winterfell, and it is ours now. We fought for our independence and we won.”

“Unlike the last time the Iron Islands fought for their independence.” Sansa’s eyes are cold and cruel. “Or had you forgotten why you grew up without your brother alongside you?” she finishes scathingly.

All traces of mirth have gone from her face now. Yara looks like she could beat Sansa to death.

“You’re fucking lucky I find it beneath me to attack little girls” she snapped at Sansa, her eyes flashing dangerously.

Arya jumps up and says coldly “Threaten my sister again and I’ll cut your throat.”

Yara merely scoffs at her, looking vaguely amused again, “I’d like to see you try it, you over-confident child.” She replies mock-indulgently.

Jon has had enough. He stands and yells at them all to stop. Stop this very fucking second.

He demands that Sansa apologise to Yara for her vicious, unkind words. And that Arya apologise for attempting to break Guest’s Rights by threatening to attack Yara.

Both of his cousins loudly refuse, until he tells them to do it or he will throw them in the dungeon with no real future timeline planned on when he would let them out.

They both apologise sulkily, looking and sounding every but like the petulant children they are. And he sends them from the room.

He then turns to Yara and apologises most sincerely to her.

She thanks him, but says that she will not support him. If he hadn’t already assumed that would be the case, he would have known it for certain the moment Sansa opened her venomous mouth.

“We can offer you Master of Ships” Varys pipes in rather pathetically. He’d finally gotten the blood flowing from his nose down to a steady trickle.

Yara scoffed at that, and called it insulting.

She looked directly at Jon.

“I’m sorry Lord Snow, I know you must be a good man for Queen Daenerys to have had such a high opinion of you, but as I said, I will not support you. My loyalty is with Queen Daenerys.”

“Daenerys is dead.” Varys pointed out flatly, and Jon winced. Did he have to keep saying it like that?

Yara looked at him coldly.

“What is dead may never die” She responded solemnly. Then turned on her heels and left.

Jon had kept Sansa and Arya confined to their rooms for a week following that display. He didn’t know how to balance this. How to make it appear that he was working with them when they seemed determined to undermine, or go against him at every opportunity. He needed to figure out a better way. But the answer was outside his grasp.

A few days later the Citadel responds scathingly to Sam’s raven with one of their own. In it, they accuse him of abandoning his studies. They make it very clear that they don’t take orders from deserters and those that cannot handle the rigour and honour of training. They say that they know he has a woman and claims a child, with another on the way. That he broke his vows to both the Nights Watch and to the Citadel and that he should be hanged as an oathbreaker.

Sam had tittered nervously to himself after finishing reading the raven aloud.

Jon had barely spoken more than five sentences to him since he had returned.

He just couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t know what to say to the man who had so callously tossed out news that would upturn his own life, as though it were normal conversation. Who had done so because he was so selfishly focused on himself and his own feelings that he didn’t bother to consider what the news might do to Jon himself. A man who had then used that news to denigrate the woman Jon loved.

But Sam clearly still thought that their past brotherhood would once again earn him a free pass, for he chuckled again and said “Imagine the Citadel having the nerve to try and tell the King what to do”. He smiled simperingly at Jon with hopeful eyes.

But this, Jon knew he couldn’t let rest. Like with Glover and his treason, Sam _was_ an oathbreaker. An oathbreaker twice over. And the punishment for oathbreaking was death. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Imagine indeed,” said Jon calmly. “I don’t want to execute you, Sam…”

“Of course not,” interrupted Sam speaking quickly, sounding relieved. “Of course you wouldn’t. It’s like I said, isn’t it? I said you’d spare men. Good men. I said that you’d be a better ruler than Daenerys, and I was right. See. Like just now, I was right.”

Something inside Jon was dangerously close to snapping at hearing Sam, once again, belittle Dany.

“You didn’t let me finish, Sam.” He said lowly, his eyes glinting, voice foreboding.

“I said that I don’t want to execute you. Just like Queen Daenerys didn’t _want_ to execute your oathbreaking father and brother. Isn’t that right, Lord Tyrion?”

“That’s correct, Your Grace.” Tyrion responded gravely, clearly picking up on the mounting tension in the room.

“Queen Daenerys didn’t want to execute your father and brother, but they were oathbreakers. There must always be a punishment for oathbreaking. It is a central tenet to Westerosi law. How else would we know that we can rely on the word of our fellow men?” He asked rhetorically. 

“No, she didn’t want to execute them. So, when it became clear that they would not renounce their allegiance to the false Queen. When it became clear that they were unapologetic about attacking their liege Lords, she offered them a choice. As an oathbreaker, I will offer you the same choice she offered them. Death, or the Wall.”

Sam spluttered, his chin wobbling, his face turning red.

“Jjjjjjoooon. Jon…” Sam quibbled.

“It’s, Your Grace.” Jon interrupted harshly. “It’s what you wanted from me. The least you could do is use my proper title.”

Sam was nodding furiously. “Yes, yes, of course, of course, Your Grace. But, you can’t, you can’t mean this?”

“But I do. You broke your vow at the Citadel, and you have forsaken your oath to the Nights Watch. You have abandoned your post. You have fathered a child. You are an oathbreaker. So, like your father and brother, you get a choice. Would you like me to execute you? Or will you return to the Wall where you belong?”

Sam was stammering incoherently, and crying now. His face a blotchy mess.

“I can assure you that Gilly, little Sam, and the baby will not be harmed. Just as Queen Daenerys did not harm your mother or sister for your father and brother’s crimes. Like her, I do not harm innocents for the crimes committed by their families.”

Sam was, at this point, choking on his own breath. Looking at Jon imploringly. But Jon would not be swayed. He could not be seen to be tolerating oathbreaking. And Sam needed to face the reality of his own, and his father and brother’s situations.

“But the Wall is gone,” Sam attempted to reason. “There is no need for it now. The Army of the Dead had been defeated.”

“For now.” Jon replied, flatly. “The first Long Night was thousands of years ago, but still, people manned the Wall every day between then and now in case it came again. Which it did. We cannot guarantee there will never again be another Long Night. The Wall will need rebuilding. Re-manning, should that day ever come. I’m sure you can at least try to bring yourself up to that task.” 

“But… but…”

“Which will it be, Samwell?” he demanded, his tone making it clear this would be the last time he would be asking.

Sam hiccupped several times, wiping fat tears from his mottled cheeks.

He looked severely betrayed, but Jon didn’t care. He had felt the same way with regards to how Sam acted towards him.

He stared at him impassively, waiting for his answer.

“I…I’ll go back to the Wall.” He finally murmured out.

Jon nodded. “Good. Be sure you are gone by first light tomorrow. And send a raven once you have arrived so that I know you have followed orders.”

He’d then stormed out of the room. He had had enough of dealing with this shit for one day.

Sam _was_ gone by first light the next day. As were Gilly, and little Sam.

Jon later learned from Bran that they had taken horses and made their way to Horn Hill where they were currently cowering under the protection of Sam’s mother and sister. Both of whom had sworn themselves to Cersei.

Jon would like to say he was surprised, or disappointed. But he was neither. Sam did always have a knack of taking the cravens path. Of putting himself first.

He resolved to think of his former friend no more.

Varys had been most frustrated that the Citadel had refused to intervene and so he switches tactics for a while. He begins trying to convince Jon to name someone from the Westerlands as his Hand of the King, and Lord Paramount of the Westerlands.

He suggests one of the Lannisport Lannisters. They had been discarded and mocked by the main branch of the Lannister family for years. They held no love for Cersei. Giving them this honour would be a sure to sway them to his side. Would cause a rift in the Westerlands that they could use to their advantage.

But Jon remains adamant that Davos is his Hand. Varys, of course, keeps pushing. Days, and days of pushing. Though Jon is firm in saying that he will not bend on this. That he had learnt from Queen Daenerys the difference between loyalty and duty, and he wants to keep as many loyal people as he can around him.

Varys is disappointed, and seems reluctant, despite Jon’s constant refusals, to give this up. He finds Jon, all the time, every day, and pulls him off alone. Tells him that he cannot really trust anyone. Not even Ser Davos, good man though he is, he still cannot really trust him. Not until this thing is done, and even then he must be careful.

“Does that mean I should also not trust you, Varys?” Jon had asked.

“Of course you can trust me. I am the exception. I am impartial. My duty is to the realm and only the realm. I do what is best for the realm, and I know you are best for the realm. I cannot be swayed by favours or positions. My intentions are clear. And you can trust them.”

Jon very much doubts that. But he wants Varys to leave him alone so he nods stiffly. Unfortunately, this has the opposite effect, and Varys attempts to corner him more and more often.

Jon’s patience dissolves entirely with Varys during another particularly disastrous meeting when Varys mentions that he has sent a raven to Dorne to begin brokering a marriage alliance between Jon and the Princess Arianne of Dorne.

Jon had stood up so fast he’d knocked half the contents of the table over and shouted at Varys that he had absolutely no right to interfere in something so personal without consulting him first.

Varys had been all simpering apology, and had tried to explain that this was a necessary, if not _the_ most necessary course of action they could be taking.

Dorne was certain to have some feelings regarding Jon being the legitimate son of Rhaegar. Especially as this news pertained to their own Princess Elia, her children, and their fates.

That forming an alliance through marriage would be the best, the easiest way to gain their favour and goodwill.

That Dorne had a fresh army. One not battered by years of fighting like the rest of the Kingdoms. And they were positioned close to Kings Landing. They could easily stage a successful attack in the names of King Aegon and Queen Arianne.

Jon refused to listen. He could hear the blood rushing through his head. He stormed from the Council room and to his chambers. Determined to be left alone for as long as he could be.

Someone knocks on his door sometime later and enters without an invitation.

He looks up and sees it is fucking Sansa, of all people. And she has a firm, no nonsense look on her face.

“You are being ridiculous, Jon.” She reprimands without preamble.

He merely stares back at her blankly.

She is undeterred. “Of course you are going to have to marry to make alliances. And everything Varys said makes sense. Dorne is the biggest political obstacle in this. You have to be willing to placate them. Titles and Council positions are not going to be enough. You have to see that. You must see that marrying Princess Arianne is the smartest political move. That it will go a long way towards fixing that whole mess.”

“I don’t give a fuck about that. I’m not going to marry anyone.” He replies broodily. This day, this topic of conversation has really taken it out of him in a way that none of the other trials they have faced so far have.

“And there’s you being ridiculous again.” She scolds him. Scolds him.

“You are going to be King. You will have to marry and produce heirs. It is one of the many responsibilities that go along with being King.”

He feels sick at that.

He balks at the idea of marrying, of having children. He never wants to be with a woman ever again. He belongs to Dany. Even if Dany is gone.

His hand unconsciously moves to grip his dragonglass necklace.

He doesn’t want children that don’t have her wide, hopeful eyes, her kind, generous heart, her silken silver hair, her unbreakable tenacity, her faith, her goodness. He doesn’t want children at all unless Dany is their mother. And that is not a possibility. So he does not want children.

He tells Sansa that he will not be forced into marriage. That it will be too hard.

Sansa, he can tell, is uncaring.

“What are you so worried about? A forced marriage isn’t painful for men the way it is for women.”

At this, despite his current feelings towards Sansa, he feels bad. He knows what she went through, but he still tries to make his point.

“Aye, physically it might not be as painful. But emotionally, my heart, my soul would be torn apart. I would be in agony every day. And how would my wife feel knowing my heart will always belong to someone else, could never belong to her?”

Sansa, he can tell from the derisive look on her face, thinks he is being absurd.

“So that’s what this is about?” she says contemptuously. “I should have guessed. It’s about _her_ again. Gods Jon you need to get over it. You barely knew the woman.” 

Jon, internally, disagrees. He knew so much about her before she died. She had been so open, so giving towards him. She had trusted him implicitly. And now, with her diary he knows her even better – and, though he didn’t think it was possible to love her more – that is exactly what the diary is doing, making him love her even more. Reading about the strength she had had. The faith in herself. All that she had lived through and overcame.

When she told him, in the vaguest of terms about her journey when they first met, he had thought her vain, boastful, opportunistic – that she was trying to build herself up as some grand figure, that she was exaggerating her hardships for sympathy. But now, he knows the truth. She had been downplaying her experiences during that conversation. She had been though all that and more. So, so much more.

As he reads of the incredible journey of the incredible woman who was once his, who wanted to be his, who would have always been his, if he hadn’t treated her so abominably, and pushed her away, and potentially gotten her killed, he falls more and more in love with her.

“And besides,” Sansa carries on following his lack of response, “what woman wouldn’t want to be Queen? Your wife will be happy with that, and it will be enough for her.”

That thought just makes him sad.

Having now known what it feels like to be truly loved he cannot imagine subjecting himself, or someone else, to a life without that feeling. He knows he will never have it again. But he won’t take that opportunity away from some other woman. Regardless of whether it makes her a Queen.

He dismisses Sansa so that he can be alone in his misery.

At yet another Council meeting, Davos asks about other Southron lords. The ones from the Reach, and other minor houses. The ones that Varys had said he sent ravens out to moons ago now.

Jon can see that Varys is uncomfortable. He tries to put them off, saying that ravens can be unpredictable and that these things take time.

But Tyrion interrupts him.

“Tell His Grace the truth, Varys.” He demands sternly. “He deserves to know. Go and get them and show him. Now.”

Varys looks at Tyrion as though he has betrayed him. But Tyrion does not back down. And with all of the eyes of the room on him, Varys has no choice but to comply.

He returns not long after with a handful of scrolls. All of them responses to his original missive. They each take turns reading them, passing them between one another.

Jon will not deny it to himself, many of the responses hurt him to read. But he doesn’t blame them. He understands. The story is a fantastical one, and their proof is limited.

Sansa, Arya, and the Northern Lords on the other hand are angry and indignant that these Southron asses would be so disrespectful as to not take a Northerner at his honourable word.

Varys placates them all. Reminds them that they have the full support of the Vale. That it is only a matter of time before they hear back from the Riverlands and have their full support as well. That that is three of the Kingdoms. No small feat. The words of these minor Houses mean nothing.

This seems to soothe everyone else in the room bar himself, Davos, and Tyrion, he notes.

But he is truly beginning to doubt the efficaciousness of this plan. Whether he was even the right person to see it through.

Yes, he had been a leader before. And he believed he’d led well. But the circumstances had been incredibly different. He had been Lord Commander of the Nights Watch, true. However that was, by and large, a military organisation. Yes, he’d dealt with his share of logistical challenges, but those were often secondary to fighting. 

And while he had been elected King in the North, it had been directly following, and then leading up to, another war. At a time when battle prowess and military leadership were more important than political manoeuvring or strategizing. He was a war time leader. A war time King. 

He hadn’t sought, nor wanted power beyond that. It was not who he was.

But now, thanks to his name, it was who he had to be.

Amidst all this they are facing one constant problem. The North is starving. Rations are becoming smaller by the day. In every meeting they discuss possible ways of getting supplies, never getting anywhere. Always coming up blank.

Until one meeting when Bran dispassionately tells them that they do not need to worry about potential supply routes any longer.

They had all looked to him, hopeful, desperately hopeful that he had seen something that would mean the difference between living, and this slow starvation they were currently in the midst of.

But their hopes were in vain. Bran informs them that Euron Greyjoy has landed his fleet in White Harbour and the surrounding ports. That they were bottled in. Trapped. And that the bottom of the Neck is being held at siege by The Golden Company. There is no way to get supplies in now, even if they had somewhere to get them from.

Jon is distraught. He looks to Varys.

“You were the one who suggested retreating to Winterfell. You said we would be safest here. You were the one who knew what Daenerys was up against. How did you not consider the possibility that the entire North could be sieged? How did you not consider Euron Greyjoy and his fleet?”

Varys hangs his head, “With respect, Your Grace, I regret to inform you that, with regards to Euron’s fleet, I, I kind of forgot about them.”

**_Cersei:_ **

Cersei is in a good mood. Her babe is growing strong in her womb. Jamie is as attentive as ever. And everything else is going according to her plans.

The envoy she had sent to the Citadel returns to her with the diary, as well as an assurance that he and his team had scoured the shelves of the surrounding years making sure there was nothing else there that suggested this even occurred.

She reads the passage from the diary – it doesn’t take her long - scoffs that those fools ever thought that this would count as proof. Then promptly tosses it in the fire and watches it burn to ash.

She also hears back from Arianne Martell. In her raven she expresses her gratitude that Cersei killed the Mountain and Ellaria Sand. However, she also says that she will not interfere directly as her reign is new – but she will provide support if needed due to the grave insult to Dorne and her own Aunt Elia and her children.

This is not good enough for Cersei. She doesn’t want casual promises. She wants binding agreements. She will not leave anything to chance.

She also wants the Dornish army. They are fresh, unscathed. They haven’t been warring for years.

So she responds politely to Arianne, biting her tongue as she does so that it has had to come to this – though reassuring herself that should it come to it, she will be able to find a way out of it. She always does.

In her response she mentions that she is with child. Due in approximately two moons. That she intends to install across all of Westeros the Dornish law of primogeniture. Which means that this child, be it a boy or a girl will be the next ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. She suggests a betrothal to Arianne between her child, and Arianne’s own when she has one, or any other Dornish child that Arianne herself would recommend as a suitable match, to further cement their alliance.

In the mean time, as she waits for her reply, Cersei writes to Lord Tybolt Crakehall, head of House Crakehall, the wealthiest and most influential family in the Westerlands besides her own. In her raven she states that with her duties as Queen, and with the imminent arrival of her child she fears she has been a poor Lady Paramount of the Westerlands. She says her father always spoke highly of Lord Tybolt. Of his strength and strategical thinking. Which is why she would like him to not only take over as Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, but to also serve on her Council as Master of Wars.

It is a flattering, simpering missive which she knows will appeal greatly to the fool’s ego, and further ensure that the Westerlands remain firmly loyal to her.

As with her missives to Arianne, she is convinced that, should it come to it, this is something she can renege on as soon as that Northern bastard is taken care of for good.

She also splits in half what remains of the Golden Company and sends them off on their respective missions with very clear instructions.

It is with a thrill of joy that she receives another raven from Arianne stating that while she was initially not going to interfere, she could no longer remain impartial. She had received a proposal of a marriage alliance between herself and this pretender Aegon. She cannot believe the insult to herself that the bastard would dare suggest such a thing. She announces her intention to come to Kings Landing to sign the betrothal agreement. And plan their next steps.

She arrives just over two weeks later.

Cersei greets her in her most luscious solar, offering her wine and platters of food.

“I must say, I am glad you saw sense, Princess. We cannot allow this bastard to run his mouth all over the continent spreading slander about your Aunt and the good Prince Rhaegar.”

“Oh yes, I’d quite forgotten. You were rather taken with Rhaegar in your youth weren’t you? I believe there was a time when you thought you would be the one to marry him.”

Cersei pushes down her indignation. Some things are worth suffering bitchy comments for.

“Indeed, you are correct. There was a time I thought I would be the lucky one. But alas, none could compete with your beautiful Aunt, the Princess Elia. As soon as she came into the picture I knew I had no chance.” She flatters, though she can feel her teeth trying to grit together at having to say it at all.

“Quite.” Arianne agrees with her. “But we are not here to discuss pasts and exchange pleasantries are we? You want to keep your crown, and I will not be insulted by the proposals of a bastard pretender. Now that we have the betrothal agreement signed, and our alliance is sealed, I can show you the gift I have bought to help us.” Arianne is smirking wickedly, and despite herself, Cersei finds herself admiring the woman. She’s upfront and devious.

“Oh? And what is this gift you’ve bought?”

Arianne reaches into the pocket of her gown and pulls out a corked vial of clear liquid giving it a playful little shake.

“Poison,” Cersei scoffs, “Of course. Why am I not surprised? You can always count on the Dornish to be predictable.”

“Now, now.” Arianne chides her still smiling, “No need to lower ourselves to petty comments. We are on the same side now aren’t we? We will share grandchildren one day after all.”

“Besides, this is not poison. We call it the Crystal Cold. It was developed for entirely innocent reasons.” She continues in a voice that is anything but innocent.

“Dorne is warm, and people want to enjoy a cool drink on a hot day. You add a drop of this and the water is instantly cold.”

Cersei looks at her sceptically.

“You don’t believe me?” asks Arianne. And before she can blink, let alone form a response, she swipes Cersei’s wine from her hands and tips a drop of the liquid into it. The wine freezes to ice instantly.

Cersei is incredulous, and also a little miffed.

“You said it cooled it down, not froze it entirely.”

“Indeed,” Arianne replies. “As I said, _originally_ it was developed for innocent purposes… But this version is more potent. It turns all liquid into ice. It crystallises it or something, I’m not clear on the specifics,” she shrugs as though they are unimportant. Which, Cersei supposes, they are.

“But that is why it is called the Crystal Cold. Interestingly, or rather, beneficially in our case, it works even better on hot water than it does on warm or cold water.”

Cersei remains unimpressed and confused.

“I’m still failing to see why you think this is such a great gift to our efforts. And please undo its effect, I’d like my wine back now.”

“That is the best part. It is entirely irreversible. The hottest fire in the world couldn’t turn that wine back to liquid now. Nor could any substance in existence.”

“And how will this help us?” Cersei enquires, still rather annoyed about her wine. She gets up and pours another goblet.

“Tsk, tsk, such a lack of foresight.” Scolds Arianne playfully.

“It is Winter. The North is freezing. But Winterfell is kept warm via water from hot springs.”

“I know,” says Cersei snappishly. “I was there once. Catelyn Stark wouldn’t shut her insufferable mouth up about it. You’d think she invented the fucking things herself.”

“Hmmm, yes. Well, pour enough of this” she says giving the bottle another cheeky shake, “into the hot springs surrounding Winterfell and it will freeze them solid. They will have no means of heating their castle but for fires, and their wood is damp with snow. Even the Northerners will begin to feel the cold. They will freeze to death even as they starve to death in their own Keep.”

Cersei has to admit she is impressed by the cunning. Though there is one problem.

“But the hot springs reside underneath the Keep. How do you propose we access them?”

“Why distraction, of course. Have a company of Euron’s men engage the Northerners in a battle. While the people of the North are fighting or hiding, I have a company of Dornish soldiers, known for their stealth, and subtly . They will sneak in, find the access point, and do this for us.”

Cersei raises her wine glass to Arianne smiling.

“Consider it done.”

**_Jon:_ **

Things, if possible, continue to worsen around Winterfell. People are hungry, and they are starting to get sick because of it.

They are living in constant fear of an invasion by Euron’s forces, and the few fighting men they have are stretched thin to keep a constant night and day guard up around the Keep.

Then, more bad news befalls them. They finally receive word back from Riverrun. But it is not, as they expected, from Edmure Tully.

It is a raven, furious in tone, from Rosilin Tully, who is holding the Riverlands with the aid of regents for her infant son, Edmond. She reports that Edmure starved to death while in captivity at the Twins because someone murdered every male in the household and no one was left to feed or tend to him, as the rest ran off out of fear that the killer would return for them too. She had heard that the killer had told them to remember that ‘Winter came for House Frey’, so she can only assume that it was one of the Starks, or someone acting in their name, or on their order that did this. That massacred half her family and was the reason her Lord husband died an agonising death by starvation. Her Lord husband who she was forced to marry, she reminds them, because Robb Stark had broken his vow. She cannot and will not trust the Starks. Sansa Stark, in her letter, she says, called upon Family, Duty and Honour – words she will raise her son to uphold – but she sees none of that in the actions of the Starks. Not in Robb Stark, nor in the Stark associated assassin who slaughtered her family and left her husband to die. She has bent the knee to Cersei Lannister on behalf of her son and the Riverlands.

Sansa is livid. Varys looks worried. Jon is just tired. What is the point of being King if he cannot help those suffering at Winterfell?

They have been backed into a trap, and with only the Vale firmly on their side, he can see no way of getting them out of it. But he keeps trying. He has to. What else has he left to him but to keep fighting?

A week or so after receiving news from the Riverlands, just as Jon is about to prepare himself for bed, he hears the horn blow.

The horn that signals attack.

He runs from his room immediately and sees the chaos that is ensuing.

Men tossing on armour and picking up weapons.

Women and children and elderly, what’s left of them, being shepherded to the crypts to hide.

A mass of people moving in each and every direction.

He sprints out the front doors, through the courtyard and out the gate. That is where he sees them.

Soldiers. Well fed, well armed soldiers. Outnumbering them greatly. And they are coming for them.

A bloody battle begins. But as he swings Longclaw left and right taking down those who would wish harm upon himself and the North, he cannot help but feel that something feels off about the battle.

Yes, they had been waiting for it. But they had been waiting a long time. This attack seems random. It has come out of nowhere. And they are wildly outnumbered, but it almost seems like the Ironborn are toying with them somehow.

They are still losing many men, but the enemy is not using this to their advantage to gain access to the Keep.

Suddenly, almost as quickly as it started, another horn blows and, remarkably, unfathomably, the Ironborn retreat.

One of them yells as he departs “A little present from the Dornish, in response to your proposal.”

Jon doesn’t understand. Why would the Dornish send a company of Iron Born to respond to Varys suggestion of a marriage alliance?

He makes sure there are enough uninjured men remaining outside to stand guard before heading back inside to assess the situation.

An hour or so passes as he checks on the wounded. Takes stock of their losses. Ensures that no harm had come to the women and children.

When suddenly, he notices that the air has grown noticeably colder.

Unnaturally colder.

Winterfell has always been warm because of the hot springs. But everyone is freezing.

He, and the Maester and the Castellan all go down to check the source of the hot springs.

What they see is enough to turn the blood in their veins as icy as the temperature.

“How is this possible?” Jon demands.

“Never have the springs frozen over, and winter is not even yet at its coldest.”

“This is not the work of winter, Your Grace.” Sighs the Maester. “This is the work of the Dornish.”

“Crystal Cold they call it. Not a poison, but for us just as deadly. It freezes any water it touches.”

“I can see that” says Jon. “Can it be undone?”

“No, Your Grace.” Replies the Maester ominously. “Nothing in this world reverses the effects of the Crystal Cold.”

It is then Jon realises what that battle had been about. It is then he realises what has happened. It is then he realises just how fucked they are.

After a long night of no sleep because they are all freezing, despite being exhausted from the distraction of a battle, they go outside to check in the daylight any damage the battle may have wrought.

It is then they find the body of little Lord Robin Arryn. Naked and flayed. His mouth a gaping hole, his tongue clearly removed.

There is a note crudely pinned to his bare skin thanking the Knights of the Vale for abandoning their post, for normally the Eyrie would be impregnable, but with so few there to defend it, breaching it was easy. It states that there is a new Lord of the Vale, and that all Valemen are ordered to return to their home and pledge fealty to their new Lord else the next body they find outside the gates of Winterfell will be one of their children, their wives, their mothers.

The Valemen are disturbed and distraught. Terrified and worried. They all immediately begin to pack up to head home.

Sansa is furious. She thought the Knights of the Vale were loyal to her.

She screams at them, calling them out for abandoning her.

But they blame her for the death of their Lord.

If she hadn’t kept them here, they said, they would have been there to protect him. And now, thanks to her, they have a new Lord, who would most likely be terrible since he was hand picked by Cersei, but they must swear fealty and serve him nonetheless because otherwise their homes will be destroyed and their families will be killed.

Sansa shrieks and yells at them. She calls them selfish to abandon Winterfell during such a time.

They respond that she is the selfish one for trying to make them stay. For making them stay in the first place.

“You know he was naught but a young boy, easily led, who loved you and would do whatever you said. You took advantage of that. Your cousin’s blood is on your hands Lady Stark.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! People really get their panties twisted up when Jon doesn’t have a dragon don’t they.
> 
> Has it ever occurred to them that Jon Snow doesn’t need a fucking dragon to sort his shit out? If they think he needs a dragon to be an interesting character, I would suggest that they, perhaps, are the ones that hate Jon.
> 
> Yeah, he’s in a dire situation right now - that’s on Varys and his piss-poor planning, not Jon. And the story isn’t over yet.
> 
> Oh, and how nice it is to hear from people who have never once commented on the story, yet suddenly they have so much to say because they want to complain that things aren’t going exactly, perfectly, completely, always theirs / Jon’s way.
> 
> Really didn't want to have to do this, because it's a time consuming pain - but I have turned on comment moderation. Mainly because it will be less time consuming than my email notification going off every few minutes alerting me to some asinine bullshit that doesn't have anything to do with the story. 
> 
> I'm all for people engaging in conversation about content when it is productive, inclusive, and kind. But I will not allow the comments section to be a place where bullying can occur. It goes against everything I believe in.
> 
> This change will not, in any way, impact the people who are actually reading, and expressing their opinions on the story.


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all those who left kind, thoughtful, insightful, encouraging, constructive or questioning comments on the last chapter - I very much appreciate it.
> 
> I have no problem with people disagreeing with the direction I am taking my story - I do have a problem with bullying and harassment. Hence why I have made the unfortunately necessary decision to moderate the comments from here on out.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this new update

**_Tyrion:_ **

Tyrion is seated in the Great Hall wishing desperately that he had a cup of wine to help him deal with all that is happening.

He’d not cared much for the half-mad little Lord of the Vale, but seeing a child’s body displayed like that had been a mortifying sight. It had not left him unaffected.

He glances surreptitiously up and to his left where Lady Sansa sits with Lady Arya.

She had been outraged at the loss of the Knights of the Vale. Had screamed and tried to shame them into staying. She had tried to command them to stay. Though they had not. The last of them had just departed Winterfell before he came in here to sit.

Yes, Sansa had been furious at the loss of the soldiers – but her reaction to the death of her cousin is frighteningly cold, disinterested, aloof. She seems entirely uncaring which chills Tyrion greatly. She had been such a kind, sensitive young girl once. Though, he supposes, there was probably a time when even he had been a sweet, and considerate young boy. Life has a way of destroying those traits in many.

Not all. But most.

His thoughts drift to Daenerys, as they often do. As they almost always do.

She had been through a lot in her life. Too much for anyone, let alone a girl so young. And while she had been unyielding, fearsome, harsh when she needed to be – she had never entirely lost her huge capacity for compassion, her ability to love, her good and gentle heart.

He had not lied when he told the former masters that his Queen had a forgiving nature. For she did. Truly. He himself had been the fortunate recipient of it on more than one occasion. First in Meereen, but especially when they arrived in Westeros and he had executed blunder after catastrophic blunder as plans. Always being outsmarted by his sister. But Daenerys had forgiven him.

She had bestowed kindness, gratitude and affection on those who were loyal to her without reservation.

She had been an incredible woman. She would have been an incredible Queen.

He sighs to himself. Going over it in his head again, for the millionth time, wondering just how and when everything had gone so wrong. How he had failed her. What else he could have done.

He knows now that it was a mistake of untold, yet epic proportions to confide in Varys about Jon Snow’s parentage. And he wishes with all his heart that he could go back and not do so. Had Daenerys forgiven him for that?

Of course, he doesn’t know for certain that that truth was the reason why Daenerys was murdered. But he cannot rule it out. Perhaps he will never be able to rule it out. Even if his sister confessed to the crime he wouldn’t necessarily believe her. Cersei has a penchant for cruelty, and would love to claim the act as her own if it would hurt her youngest brother, as she knows it would.

But even beyond that, he is growing increasingly wary of Varys. His old friend has been acting most strange. Had been acting most strange since a few days before Daenerys’ untimely death. With his talk of claims, and cocks, and who would make the better ruler, and what it even means to be a good ruler.

The timing, Tyrion must admit, is suspicious. As was Varys’ reaction.

Just as disturbing is the way that Varys is acting now. As each of his plans crashes resulting in often devastating consequences he grows more and more unhinged. He is grasping, desperate. His conviction that this must work, that they must put Jon on the Throne is just as strong as everyone else’s – yet there is something manic, wild about Varys’ need to do so.

Additionally, Tyrion has noted, he continually attempts to corner and isolate Jon. He has no idea what he tries to say to him, and Jon is proficient at getting Varys to back off, for Jon is a formidable man, and not one to cross – but this only seems to increase Varys attempts to sequester him. To detach him from the rest of the Council and make the two of them an insular unit. Again, of course, Jon will not have it. He’s fairly certain he’s seen Varys nearly piss himself at Jon’s reactions to his attempts on a few occasions. But still, he does not stop.

There is also the matter that he is witnessing playing out right in front of his eyes at this very moment.

Lady Sansa had just remarked, in a rather bored and unaffected tone that it certainly was a shame about Robin, for if he had lived, Arya could have married him to solidify the Vale’s support of the North.

This in itself would have been fine, would have made sense given the current political climate, had the conversation not continued.

Arya had leapt to her feet, affronted beyond measure, insisting that she would not now, nor would she have ever considered doing such a thing. She had then asked Sansa why _she_ couldn’t marry Robin herself since it was her plan, and she was the one that actually knew him.

Sansa had sniffed imperiously and said imperviously that he was closer in age to Arya, and besides that, that she cannot be the Lady of the Vale because she is the Lady of Winterfell and will, once Jon takes the Throne, be Queen in the independent North.

Arya had looked at her sceptically, but Sansa had a very smug, satisfied, knowing expression on her face.

“You heard what Jon said, the North won’t be independent. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jon doesn’t know everything, and he’s not the only one who makes these decisions. I know what I know. And I do know what I am talking about.” Sansa had replied curtly and self-assuredly shutting the conversation down entirely.

It made him wonder what Varys had been saying. He knew that Lady Sansa had been reluctant, nay had downright refused to send ravens to her uncle or cousin on behalf of Jon. That was, until Varys spoke to her privately.

What had he said to her? What had he promised her?

Varys certainly hadn’t shared this information with himself. Nor had he shared it with Jon or Davos as far as he was aware. If he had, surely whatever concessions or promises that had been made would have come up at the Council.

Had Varys simply made Sansa a false promise, or the suggestion of a promise to get her to play along and do her part? Or was he up to something else entirely?

This is what frustrated Tyrion. He simply didn’t know any more.

They are all, all of them, a bit lost.

**_Jon:_ **

Jon is not happy. How could he be? The North was already in enough trouble. Every plan they made crumbling at their feet, complete disasters. They had little food. And now, to top it all off, they were freezing. Without the benefit of the hot springs pumping life and warmth into the Keep, Winterfell was just as cold as any other castle in the North.

So no, he was not happy.

However, he did feel invigorated, rejuvenated, galvanized and motivated in a way that he hadn’t for months. Because while these new challenges were dire, they _were_ ones that he knew how to handle.

He had been feeling useless, listless, pointless during the endless Council meetings. He was not a politician. He was not a schemer. Making alliances was not his strength. The only two times he had ever really tried to make alliances – first with Dany, then with Cersei - he had mismanaged them both terribly. Managing to insult both women that he desperately needed the help of. Refusing to give an inch, in the case of Daenerys and costing them precious time in the process. And failing to obfuscate his words, in the case of Cersei, so that she might send them aid. His attempts to rally the Northern Houses to fight against the Boltons had been similarly disastrous.

No, these vicious games hiding behind pretty words and promises were not his strengths.

But now, now he could feel his sense of purpose returning. His determination and faith in himself being incited.

Yes, Winterfell was freezing. But he had lived the majority of his adult life as a man of the Nights Watch living further North, in icy temperatures much the same as they were facing now. Housed in the decrepit, and rundown Castle Black.

He had spent months living beyond the Wall in tents and caves without the benefit of a castle at all to keep the cold out. He’d learnt how to survive in those conditions. He’d learnt how to be a leader in those conditions. He knew how to see to it that his people survived now. This, he could lead them through.

The first thing he does is order a decent sized room, right near the kitchens, cordoned off. Here, he declares, fires will burn day and night. The sole purpose of this room is to dry out firewood for the fires that will be lit in the rest of the Keep. People work to make several large fire pits inside, and Jon puts the young boys in charge of the task of manning the room. Their job is to move the wood close to the fires in batches, rotate it at regular intervals, then, once it is dry, move it aside to the pile by the door where it can be taken to the rest of the Keep.

He tells the boys this must be a constant task. They will have to work in shifts trading off sleep and their duties. They all look up to him, their King, with admiration and bow and swear that they will not let him down. He can tell by the eager looks in their eyes that they won’t. He leaves Arya to supervise them anyway, just in case.

The next thing he does is order that all non-essential fabrics be stripped from what they are covering. Curtains, tapestries and rugs from barely used rooms, old clothing long since kept in storage, upholstery ripped from furniture, anything they can get their hands on. Sansa had been scandalised at the tearing apart of the pieces of their home. But he hadn’t given her the time of day to voice her thoughts. Only leaving people to see that his orders are completed.

In another medium sized room, with several fires blazing, he sets up what can only be referred to as a sewing circle. He wants the clothing of every inhabitant at Winterfell to be lined with, at the very least – more if the amount of fabric they gather will allow – another layer of cloth or wool or fur. Anything that will do to keep the people even a modicum warmer. He puts Sansa in charge of this task, and of the young girls recruited to help, she is excellent with a needle after all. Surprisingly, in this, Sansa does not complain and sets to work immediately instructing her young charges, and soon every person’s clothing is, at the very least, a little warmer than before.

He instructs people to turn the Great Hall into a Sleeping Hall. He has people put sheets and hangings up and over every inch of the walls to insulate the room and block out as much of the cold and condensation as possible.

Everyone. Low born, High born, himself even will sleep in the same room. This, he tells them will save on the number of fires they must keep lit. Plus it has the added benefit of preserving body heat during rest. Mattresses, pallets and pillows are dragged down. Families will all sleep together he orders. He tells them to sleep close, to keep one another warm. Unmarried men shall all occupy the same sleeping space and do the same. As will unmarried women. Any orphaned children will share with the unmarried women. And that leaving the Sleeping Hall, unless it is a priority, or to complete their daily tasks, is not advised as they will only be keeping the fires constantly lit in there. That it is the place where the people will be the warmest, the driest.

There is some grumbling about the impropriety of this, particularly amongst the Lords, but Jon is firm with them. He tells them that it will be the cold that kills them before they even have the time to run out of food. That this will save their lives and if they want to maintain their lofty standards and distance then they are welcome to go and do so in their own Keeps. But here, in Winterfell, this is how things are going to be done.

The Lords may grumble, but the small-folk look to him with gratitude in their eyes. They thank him humbly for making efforts in the name of their welfare, the welfare of their children. He feels good. Good that he can do these small things to generate some modicum of comfort.

He has the maester working tirelessly, scouring the library, and his own personal collection of books, to find something, anything that will reverse the effects of the Crystal Cold. The maester is not optimistic, nor is Jon for that matter, but he will not allow him to give up.

Everyone. Everyone from the young boys and girls, to the men and women – high and low born alike has a task that will keep them active and moving throughout the day. He knows this is necessary. He doesn’t want to wear them out, and he cautions them against this. But he knows that keeping moving will keep them warm, and will keep their minds off of unpleasant matters.

Food is still an issue. It is an ongoing issue. He could organise hunting parties, but the weather is not amenable for that, and he needs all the able bodied men here at Winterfell to carry out the remainder of his plans.

Instead, for this task he turns to Ghost.

Ghost is huge now. But he is still as silent as his namesake, and a natural hunter. And with his pure white fur he will blend perfectly into the snowy landscape of the North making him an ideal predator.

He sends Ghost off with instructions to go after the biggest game he can find, if he can. Though if he cannot find any, then any small animal will do. But that he must bring it back, as intact as possible. Not tear it to pieces or devour it all for himself.

He can sense, in that way, through that bond he has with Ghost, that he understands. And so Ghost becomes Winterfell’s resident hunter. Oftentimes he is not successful, though this is not surprising. It is the beginning of a long winter and animals have either fled – due either to the cold, the warring or both, - gone into hibernation, or died from the cold themselves – these, if they get to them quickly enough, are often salvageable, if not for meat then at least for their furs or skins. But sometimes Ghost returns triumphant, his large tail wagging, looking very pleased with himself. And on those joyful occasions the people’s meagre rations are supplemented with hardy meat in warm broths which do much to boost the morale of the flailing North.

During this time, much to Jon’s increasing annoyance, Varys continues to attempt to corner him. Sometimes just to talk to him – he still insists he name someone from the Westerlands his hand, he still insists that Jon should call upon the Free Folk to aid them. But Jon will not yield. And with each day he doesn’t he senses Varys getting more frustrated, more desperate, more adamant.

Varys also continues to decry that they need regular, if not daily Council meetings. That he still has many plans that he must put in to effect.

This, Jon strongly doubts. He has a feeling that Varys has reached the bottom of his long list of machinations. And even if he did think Varys had more plans, he has no interest in hearing them now. Not at this moment – the North is in survival-mode, not planning mode. Besides all that, he is beginning to have grave doubts about the viability of Varys’ plans. About Varys’ abilities at all. He cannot help but notice that several of the issues that they are facing now are due, in some part, to the actions of Varys.

Varys had encouraged Sansa to keep the Knights of the Vale, and had lost them the support of the Vale entirely. Varys had insisted that Sam write to the Citadel and the Citadel had responded with fury. Varys had suggested their retreat to the North, and now they were blocked in. Varys had proposed marriage on his behalf and had pissed off Dorne so much that Dorne had permanently destroyed the infrastructure of Winterfell in retaliation leading them to their current, frozen predicament.

No, for the moment he was fed up with Varys plans and their repercussions. He had plans of his own to enact. And he wasn’t going to trust Varys with them. For all that Varys continually said that he was the only person Jon could truly trust, he was actually one of the people Jon that trusted the least.

His primary concern is Euron Greyjoy and his fleet blockading the port at White Harbour. If they could regain access to that port then they would, at the very least, have a manner of getting supplies in.

With this in mind, he sends a raven to Yara Greyjoy:

_Queen Yara,_

_Please allow me first to apologise to you most profusely on behalf of my sisters. Their conduct was deplorable, and inexcusable when you were a guest at Winterfell, and I can assure you that they were punished for their actions. I know that you do not believe what we told you that day, and I am not writing in an attempt to convince you. I am writing because you and I share a common problem. Your uncle. He, and his fleet are holding White Harbour under siege, and without access to this port the North will starve. I know you want your uncle dead. I may not be able to promise you independence for the Iron Islands any more than I can promise the people of the North that I will get through winter alive. But I have to try. Would you be open to coordinating a joint attack? The people of the North fighting from land, and your ships fighting from the sea to bring down your uncle. I can promise you nothing in return for this, but the death of your uncle, for I have nothing else to offer, but I urge you to please consider._

_Respectfully,_

_Jon Snow_

As he awaits her reply, he turns his attentions to his next biggest issues.  
  


If Yara does agree, and they are successful, then the North will have outside access again. They need supplies. They need food. But they have no money. They also have little of anything worth trading really. Certainly not with the rest of Westeros which Cersei seems to have gathered up into the palm of her hand with ease. In times past the Ironwood of the North was a primary export. But many of the trees had been damaged during the Battle for the Dawn, and even if they weren’t he doubts any Kingdom would risk Cersei’s wrath to trade with the North right now.

No, they will need to look further afield. They will need to trade with Essos. But Essos has never needed, nor wanted their wood. They have wood enough of their own better suited to their very different climate.

Indeed the North does not have much of anything, but one thing they do have is dragonglass. Piles of it. Left over from the Battle from the Dawn. Weapons found on the battle field the next day, pieces they had no time to forge.

Dragonglass is beautiful, and it is rare. It could certainly have some worth to trade on. But not in the current state it is in.

He goes to see Gendry in the forge where the young man seems to spend most of his time alone when not seeing to his other duties and asks him if he can remake the broken, or untreated pieces of dragonglass into something valuable.

He has his own idea in mind of what this something could be. Daggers, short-swords as unique and beautiful as they are functional. Essos may have their own wood for the things that they need, but ironwood is still a novelty to them. He asks Gendry if he could finely repurpose the dragonglass into these, with silver hilts, and strong, polished ironwood handles.

Such a weapon would be rare, distinctive and exceptional in Essos – surely there would be a demand for such items.

Gendry is enthusiastic and agrees immediately. Jon gets the sense that he too, is looking for a sense of purpose at the moment. But he doesn’t pry. It isn’t any of his business. He simply asks him to put a team together.

Doing so doesn’t take long. Many people are keen to work in the forge where it is swelteringly hot. It is certainly a lot better than guard duty.

So Jon collects all the silver he can find at Winterfell. Ornaments, decorations, cutlery for special occasions, jewellery, anything he can get his hands on.

Sansa had been beyond indignant insisting that he was robbing her home right before her very eyes. But he had reminded her coldly that people were starving right before their very eyes, that she could be next, and that none of them could take their trinkets to the grave.

As so, a team of men worked all day, and sometimes through the night forging and polishing delicate, beautiful looking, though deceptively strong dragonglass daggers and short-swords, melting down sliver to use as the hilts, and honing and crafting intricate ironwood handles. Soon they had a decent sized pile, and Jon had to admit that they were lovely things to behold. He truly wouldn’t mind having one for himself. 

He hears back from Yara. In her response she says she would be amenable to his plans of a joint attack – though she would need all the details - as she certainly wants her uncle dead. She also says that once he falls his men, most likely, will turn to her as their leader. Such is the Ironborn way. Thus, they only really have ensure that they take out the Silence. Her uncle’s ship.

Thus, with a product to trade, should the opportunity arise, in the making, he begins to consider _how_ to make that opportunity arise. Something made infinitely more possible now that he knows he can count on the support of Yara Greyjoy in this, at least.

But he still needs to know how to take down an enemy at sea from the land. Of this, he knows nothing. But he knows two people who do have experience in the matter.

He calls Tyrion and Ser Davos to his private meeting room where he had lit a fire hours in advance in the hopes that they would be at least somewhat comfortable.

“I must say,” says Davos as he enters the room, “I’m bloody proud of you, lad. You were handed an impossible situation and you are doing an incredible job of keeping everyone’s heads above water. The North would be nothing but corpses without you and your planning.”

He’s smiling his fatherly smile at him and Jon feels warm, and as proud as Davos says he should.

“I agree entirely, Your Grace,” says Tyrion following Davos into the room. “None but you could have done it. Ingenious, the things you have implemented. When we make it through this alive we will have you to thank.”

He is grateful for Tyrion’s words also. The man is often cynical, sarcastic, but he cannot hear an ounce of that in the words he has just spoken. He was being entirely genuine.

“Thank you, both,” he replies sincerely. “It means a lot.”

“But now it is your expertise I need I’m afraid.” He’s looking at them a little worriedly. This is not fair to either of them, and it is not going to be easy. But it has to be done. He has to do something.

“Now why are you looking like that, son? We’re here to advise you.”

“Indeed, any expertise we have is at your service, Your Grace.”

“And I thank you for it. Truly I do. But what I want to discuss. What we must discuss is going to be a painful, or sensitive topic for the both of you. And for that, I am sorry.”

They both look at him quizzically and so, to get it over with, he begins to explain as quickly as possible how he needs to devise a way to launch an attack on the Greyjoy fleet. He needs to know how Tyrion did it at the Battle of the Blackwater. He needs to know how and why Davos and his men hadn’t seen it coming. He needs to know everything.

He looks guilty and worried by the time he is finished. And Tyrion and Davos both look a little pale. Each studiously avoiding one another’s eyes.

“I’m sorry to bring it up. Truly, I am. If there were another way I wouldn’t put either of you in this position but…”

“No, no, lad,” says Davos, though his voice is thicker and heavier than Jon has ever heard it. “None of that. We understand, and we, of course will help you. Won’t we, Lord Tyrion?”

Tyrion looks guiltier than Jon feels but he nods his head firmly. “We will, indeed. Of course, Your Grace. What do you need to know exactly?”

“How?” asks Jon bluntly. “I’d heard it was wildfire but…”

“Aye,” says Davos.

Tyrion is looking down, fiddling with his hands. Jon can tell he would probably cut off his own arm for a cup of wine in this moment.

“Wildfire it was.” finishes Davos.

“But how… how did you get it to the ships?”

Tyrion, without ever looking up, explains to him in detail how they had chained the ships in to the harbour, then sent out a lone ship of their own amidst Stannis’ fleet and set the majority of it ablaze. How the entire Bay was lit up green.

Davos looks sick. Tyrion looks miserable. Jon feels a little sick too, but he knows now is not the time.

“Could we do something similar? Can we get wildfire?”

“Wildfire, no.” Answers Tyrion. “Only members of the Alchemists Guild know how to make it, and they closely guard that secret. With good reason.”

He scratches his chin thoughtfully for a moment.

“But we may not need wildfire. If all we need is to take out the Silence, then we may only need explosives. Any maester worth his chain can make an explosive. We can box it up, fill it with sharp rocks and metals and then when it goes off the fire will do damage to the ship, as will the objects contained within it. They will explode out in a force with the fire and lodge themselves in the ship causing holes. Provided we have enough of them, we can take down one ship.”

Jon is thoughtful. “It could work,” he concedes, “But how do we get the explosives close enough to the ship? How do we light them?”

They talk long into the night and between the three of them they devise a plan.

The maester will make the explosive powder. Tyrion will design the box to contain it, and the shrapnel. Attached to this box will be a cord. Men with torches (as well hidden as possible) will row out in boats and get as close to the Silence as possible. To avoid them being detected, soldiers on land will use the trebuchets – which will need fixing – to fling rocks and other rubble at the ships. They do not have much at Winterfell, but they have rubble a plenty. Hopefully this will divert attention away from the men in the boats long enough for them to get close and light the cord. After they have, they will have around two minutes to abandon their row boats and swim as far away from the explosion as possible. Davos suggests they swim down instead of across as this will keep them safer. They also agree to attack at night as this will make it even less likely that they are seen.

By the end of it, all three are exhausted. But agree it is the best possible plan.

Jon leaves them, sensing they all need some time to themselves right now, and goes off to reply to Yara informing her of their plan, and when they intend to attack. As soon as he receives the affirmative from her, they will begin.

In the meantime there is much to be done to prepare for the attack.

Men work tirelessly to mend the damaged trebuchets, and fill wagons with stone rubble, as well as what little pitch they could find, to fling at the ships as their diversion.

Tyrion tinkers with his box until he is satisfied that it will work.

The maester makes them up more explosive than they will need.

Finding men for the mission was difficult. He knew it would be. It was dangerous what he was asking of them. He wanted to go with them himself but Davos and Tyrion had been firmly and adamantly against it. They were relentless, and eventually, Jon had conceded realising that he was, in fact, needed to hold the North together right now.

Eventually though, some men volunteered. They were watching their families suffer. They had to do something. Jon hated taking advantage of their desperation. But the fact of the matter was that they were all desperate. They had to take this chance.

Varys had been livid that they were planning something without him. That he hadn’t known. But Jon had told him that he should stick to his area of expertise, while he stuck to his. Varys knew nothing of battle, he should stay out of this. And yes, that was a command.

Finally, and without a moment to spare as everything had only just come together, they hear back from Yara confirming the date of attack.

It is time.

The road to White Harbour is a hard one. The snow making travelling, especially with wagons loaded down with supplies, a difficult one. But it will be worth it. It will be so worth it if this works.

Finally, they make it. 

As planned, they attack at night. Starting by flinging rubble and pitch at the closest ships diverting all attention towards them. The Silence is easy to spot. It is the grandest, largest ship in the fleet, and his people in their boats make their way close to it, shielding their torches and doing their best not to draw attention to themselves.

It is perhaps easier than it should be. The Ironborn are preoccupied by the land attack, and it is clear that they were not expecting an attack at all. They had been expecting an easy siege, holed up comfortably on their ships waiting for the North to slowly die.

Well, they were wrong.

Jon is manning a trebuchet, loading it up with more rubble when he hears it, the first boom, followed closely by a second, a third, a fourth, a fifth, he loses count.

The explosions are terrible. Fire and metal flinging itself and latching on to the great vessel. It is a spectacle, but not a pretty one.

Some of his men make it to shore. Others do not. They stand back and watch, and wait. The Silence starts to sink. Then, as promised, Yara uses that opportunity to launch her own attack via sea.

As dawn breaks over the horizon he watches the Silence sink below the water. He hears Yara laughing triumphantly, holding her uncle’s severed head in her hand.

As she predicted, the remaining Ironborn are quick to swear fealty to her. Those who can speak saying the words. Those who have had their tongues removed simply kneeling.

She comes ashore and shakes his hand strongly.

“Well met, King Jon.” She says enthusiastically, clearly still high on the thrill of battle.

He gives her a strange look and she laughs.

“Not like that, you bloody ass.” She exclaims, laughing. “Not King Jon of the Seven Kingdoms or whatever it is you’re calling yourself now. But you called me Queen and respected the independence of the Iron Islands, I can do the same, call you King Jon and respect that you are King in the independent North.”

“Right,” Jon replies, a little flabbergasted, “Right, thank you.”

“And thank you, it seems we both have one terrible problem off our hands.”

“Aye, we do, and I thank you again for your help. But there is one more thing I would ask of you, if I may?”

She’s eyeing him warily, which, fair enough, they do not exactly know one another.

“The North is starving, we need food…”

“I haven’t got any to spare if that’s what you’re asking me. My men and I are barely getting by as it is.”

“Well then, you might like this proposition.”

“You’re not my type, Snow” she says to him with a lewd, yet cheeky grin.

“And you’re not mine.” He jokes back. “But what I’m suggesting could benefit us both. We have these,” he shows her one of the dragonglass blades, “hundreds of them. We cannot trade with Westeros, we know that. Cersei is out for all of our heads, but I think they would fetch a decent price in Essos. I’m asking if you’d be willing to transport them there to sell them and buy us grain, and other necessities in return. We don’t want money. We’ve no use for it now.”

Yara is eyeing the blade, he can tell that she, like him, thinks it is indeed a thing of beauty.

“And what exactly is in it for me?” she asks bluntly twirling the knife between her fingers deftly.

“You said you are low on food too. We split the profits fifty-fifty. Your people get fed, my people get fed. It’s a win, win.”

She furrows her brow and contemplates for a moment.

“Alright,” she says finally holding out her hand to shake his again, “You’ve got yourself a deal. But this one,” she spins the dagger again, “this one is for me, a token of your appreciation.”

He allows himself a small smile.

“Of course.”

It’s not until he is back at Winterfell that he allows himself to really relax. The systems he had implemented had been running smoothly in his absence. His people are not necessarily comfortable, but they are surviving. They are warm, they are getting food, and soon they will have more.

He lies down on his pallet in the Sleeping Hall thinking of the supplies they will soon have from Essos…

Essos…

It is then that he realises with a start and an agonising jolt in his heart that he hadn’t thought about Dany in weeks. Weeks. He had been so focused on surviving. So focused on planning.

He cannot believe it.

The thought makes him sad for her. Sad that she had been forgotten so easily. So quickly.

The pain and the guilt tear at him. He’d once told Dany that she would be remembered for thousands of years and yet he, someone who had known her, someone who had loved her so very much, had gone and forgotten her for sennights. As though she were nothing. As though she had never been. As though she had never been everything to him.

His chest aches with the notion.

He supposes it is good for him. Good that he is moving on. He doesn’t want to – even if he did for a while. But what else is there to do? She is dead. She is gone. Lost to him forever. He supposes it is good for him that he is moving on.

After all, what other choice does he have?

**_Daenerys:_ **

She feels the first twinge of pain just before noon. A sudden jolt in her abdomen and up her spine.

By late evening she is fully in labour.

It is agonising. She is in agony. The pain is excruciating. She feels like she is being ripped apart, pulled in a thousand different directions.

She can hear Vitihi’s authoritative voice giving her commands on what to do, and she does her best to follow them all through the blinding pain.

She can feel Missandei’s gentle hand on her brow, in her own hand, can feel her soft love and hear her encouraging words.

But all she wants is Jon.

He should be here. He should get to be here for the birth of his children. This isn’t fair to him.

She is delirious with pain, but she knows she calls out for him several times. Each time Missandei gives her a soft, sad, understanding smile and squeezes her hand gently.

The labour goes on for what feels like forever.

She screams. She bleeds. She cries.

And she wishes. Oh, how she wishes everything were different. She wishes for Jon.

She hates herself on behalf of him and their children that he will not be here to see them as they make their entrance into the world. She wonders if he will ever forgive her for that? If her children will ever forgive her for it?

Finally, after sixteen long, long hours she hears a cry and Vitihi’s gleeful voice exclaim that she has a little khalakki.

A daughter. She has a daughter. A living, breathing daughter.

She lifts her head and tries to take a look at the miracle but Vitihi reminds her that her work is not quite done. Tells her to take this time to regather her strength.

She inhales deeply, trying to focus on what comes next and not the most beautiful sound she has ever heard. Her daughter’s cries.

Then, she is at it again. Thankfully, it happens quicker this time and before she knows it, another gorgeous cry joins in in harmony with her daughters.

“A khalakka, Khaleesi.” Vitihi beams.

And Dany beams with her, her tears of pain now turned to tears of sheer, unimaginable joy.

She tries to sit up, but Vitihi tells her there is a bit more she must do. So, as her precious babes are being washed and bundled she endures Vitihi’s painful prodding until she is deemed fit and finished.

“You did well, Khaleesi. We will give you some time.”

Missandei smiles at her with nothing but love and happiness in her eyes as a handmaid brings her over her babes, then the three of them leave the room.

And she is left alone with the two most beautiful creatures the Gods have ever fashioned.

Oh, but they are so little. So perfect.

She is enamoured with them as she unwraps their little bundles and examines each of their tiny fingers and toes placing kisses everywhere, humming lowly and sweetly to them.

The babes are looking at her curiously.

Her daughter. Her daughter, she can barely believe she can say those words, looks so much like she imagines she herself did as a babe. Her eyes are a soft lilac colour, and there are delicate wisps of moon-silver hair adorning her head.

And her son. Her son. Oh, but he is the exact image of Jon. So much so that her heart feels like it is bleeding inside her chest.

His wide, grey eyes are gazing up at her, and his head is covered in the same delicate wisps of hair, only his are raven coloured and already trying to curl closely to his crown.

She has never felt so much love. She has never felt so much sadness.

These two, beautiful, perfect children deserve everything.

But most of all, they deserve their Kepa.

She spends another few hours simply staring at them, marvelling. Breaking only to feed them when they cry out for it.

She is exhausted and knows that she should rest, but she cannot look away from them. She doesn’t think she will ever be able to.

This is their first day, and she wants to witness it all along with them.

With that in mind, she calls her handmaid and asks her to run down to the market and fetch Gramot.

He was the artist that she had commissioned to design the new Targaryen banner, and she had asked this one more thing of him which he had said he would be more than honoured to do.

Jon could not be here for this day. She will never be able to give that back to him. But she wants him to have something of it. Even if it will never be enough. Even if she knows it will never make up for her taking this from him.

Gramot arrives and sets to the task she had asked of him moons ago. Painting a portrait of her and Jon’s two beautiful babes on the day of their birth.

She hopes with everything she has that he will be able to see it someday. That he will be able to see them someday. That it will be safe soon and he can know their children.

For now it is the best she can do.

After all, what other choice does she have?


	13. Chapter Twelve

**_Daenerys:_ **

Dany spends the next two weeks resting and recovering.

Well, she is supposed to be resting and recovering, but she is too fascinated, too enamoured, too enthralled with the two tiny bundles of pure love that are her babes to get much resting done.

Every day. Every minute it seems, they do something that amazes her. That fills her eyes with tears of wonder and awe.

How is it possible that two such perfect beings exist?

She spends an inordinate amount of time just gazing at them. Marveling at them. Singing softly to them.

She can barely bring herself to look away from them.

She is utterly, and completely besotted.

It is silly and fanciful she knows… But the babes look so much like their parents that she sometimes indulges in the notion that they were born to have the lives, the love, the care, the attention, the _home,_ that both she and Jon were deprived of.

Her sweet daughter loves nothing more than being cuddled tight. Warm skin against warm skin. She’s so little that sometimes Dany is afraid she is going to crush her. But when she lets up the pressure of her snuggling arms even a little bit, she is met with whimpers of protest that do not abate until her precious one is wrapped up tight against her mother again.

And her darling son. He reminds her so much of Jon. The tiny furrow of his brow. The downturned pout if his little bow like lips. And just like his father he never fails to smile whenever she laughs. Jon had always smiled when she laughed. So she had laughed openly and often whenever she was around him in the hopes of coaxing out one of his rare, but beautiful, genuine smiles. It amuses her to think that she probably made broody Jon Snow think himself a much funnier man than he actually is, because she laughed so frequently in his presence. She laughs aloud at the thought of it now, and, right on cue, their son’s lips split open into a wide, gummy infant smile. She giggles again at the sight, and the tiny smile widens. Yes, just like his Kepa.

As she gazes down at her son’s beautiful face she cannot help but wonder about Lady Catelyn. How could she have looked at a baby as precious as this and felt anything except the warmest feelings of love and protectiveness for him, regardless of whose child he was? It makes her miserable to think about. About little Jon, hopeful and wanting of a mother’s love. With a woman, right there in his home, who could have provided it. But instead she denied him at every turn. She doesn’t understand it. 

She knows why she herself had seemed unlovable as a child. She was often dirty, dressed in tatters, too thin from hunger, all those things that come from living a life in hiding, on the run, on the streets. It wasn’t fair. But she understands why people had looked down at her with disdain as a child.

But why had Lady Catelyn not been able to love Jon? He had been just a babe. A tiny babe with all the potential and joy that babes hold. And all of the things that she hated him for had not been his fault at all. She cannot help but despise the woman she has never met for treating a child that way. 

She knows that people can love a child who is not their own. Grey Worm and Missandei had taken to spending a lot of time with a little girl of three at the orphanage. And unless she is very much mistaken, she expects that the child will be joining their household sooner rather than later. She is excited, and overjoyed for them both.

Additionally, the overwhelming generosity of the people of Meereen was proof that people could, at the very least, care about a babe unrelated to them by blood.

From the day she had given birth, and every day thereafter, gifts had been left outside her door. Piles of them. Whittled wooden toys. Soft blankets. Tiny gowns. Little pieces of furniture. Anything and everything a babe could ever want or need. And all crafted with care and love.

She was so grateful, and could not wait to be able to express this to the citizens of the city.

A few weeks before she delivered the twins, a portion of each of the Dothraki, Unsullied, Dragon’s Sons, and Free Dragons had left to free Yunkai and Astapor. She is beyond glad that they had. That it is finally happening. Though she feels wretched, terrible that she could not have gone with them herself.

It was her mistake, her thoughtlessness that had led to those cities being re-enslaved. She felt as though she needed to be with the armies, to help in the emancipation of the cities, in order to make up for her past, grievous transgressions against them. But, in the end, the need for expediency – each day they waited was another day that people remained in chains – outweighed her remorse, her guilt. Of course it did. And so they had set off on their campaign.

She had received word a week prior that both ventures had been successful. The cities had been freed. That members of the Council of Meereen and representatives from the new Councils in Volantis had aided, and advised Yunkai and Astapor in developing and establishing new forms of governance and leadership. That they had been promised her eternal support and protection.

She wonders if the people of those cities doubt that last part. Doubt her promises. Doubt her protection. Doubt her. After all, she had already left them defenseless once already, and the result had been a horrifying return to slavery.

She will visit them herself, once she is recovered enough. To apologise, to beg their forgiveness, and to guarantee this promise. She will do whatever is necessary to prove to them that she, and her people, will protect them always.

Now she is left waiting for her people to return. If travel is kind they should be here within a few days. She wants all of her people here when she presents her children to them. For it is to all of them that she owes the very lives of her children. Had they not gotten her out of Westeros when they did…

Missandei and Vitihi had been wonderful during this time. Tending to her in her recovery, and absolutely doting on the babes.

How could they not? Dany is convinced that they are the most perfect of creations. How could anyone look upon them and not love them?

Though, she knows this, sadly, is not entirely true. To Westeros. To Varys, to Cersei, to any number of people on that continent who had wanted her gone, wanted her dead, her children were dangerous. A concern. A threat that should, and would be eliminated with swift, and brutal force should their existence ever be known.

It doesn’t matter that she never plans to return to the place of her birth. That she has made her home here, in Essos.

To the people of Westeros, she, and her children will always be a problem.

She marvels at her own stupidity. Her foolish pride. Her hubris.

Westeros had always wanted her dead. From the moment she was born people there had sought to snuff out her life. Why had she thought she would be welcomed back? Why had she ever tried? A continent does not simply overthrow a King, murder all the members of his House that they can, and spend the next over a decade and a half trying to kill the final two members while facing no backlash, or repercussions for these actions from the people – Lords and smallfolk alike – unless that House was truly unwanted. She’d been as foolish as Viserys, even though she had prided herself on seeing past the banal flatteries he so enjoyed to hear, thinking that the people would want her to rule them. She had been a pariah, an exile from Westeros since shortly after taking her first breath.

Westeros had been done with Targaryens.

When she had first arrived on Dragonstone, with three powerful allies, she had allowed herself to hope. But disaster after disaster had left that hope waning. But still, she had thought that perhaps she could be a good Queen. However, as soon as she had served their purpose, been used as their tool to destroy the true threat in the North, as soon as they found someone they liked better than her, history had repeated itself. And she had found herself, once again, fleeing Dragonstone to save her very life. A pariah, an exile once more.

Westeros had been done with Targaryens.

Until they weren’t.

But she wasn’t the Targaryen they wanted.

Which makes the issue of informing Jon of their children’s existence that much more difficult. It will have to be done with the upmost delicacy. Timing will be everything. As will secrecy. She ponders this problem daily, yet still, she can think of no solution.

She mourns, on behalf of Jon, the things he is missing out on. The things he is going to continue to miss out on because it is more important to keep their children alive than anything else. She would be willing to forgo ever seeing them again, so long as it meant that they got to live full, long, and happy lives, as much as it would pain her. Would break her heart. She assumes, she hopes, that Jon would feel the same.

Gramot comes to the house almost daily. His portrait is a masterpiece. Truly a thing of beauty. She does not commission another portrait. Instead, she asks him to make charcoal sketches of the twins. Some of the two of them together in their crib, and some of them individually – laying on the ground gazing at a stunning mobile of dragons that had been another gift, trying to grasp in their tiny, uncoordinated little hands their many toys. Gramot outdoes himself with these, and adds little coloured details that bring the drawings to life. She meticulously dates and catalogues every single one along with written anecdotes about whatever miraculous, or mundane thing each babe had done that day.

She never has him draw her with the babes, despite his occasional suggestion. The drawings are for Jon. They are so he can see his children grow. She doubts he would want her in any of them. The last time they had spoken he had been cold, almost cruel. He could not look at her. He had told his sisters his truth despite knowing what it would mean for her. His need to do the honourable thing outweighing his concern for her life – as if there was anything honourable about taking an action that condemned a woman he once loved, and if he didn’t care about that, then his own aunt, his own blood, to death. And, like she had told him it would, the worst possible outcome had indeed come to pass.

He does not care about her. Not the way he once did. Of this she is certain, it is what all the evidence suggests. If he had cared for her the way she thought he had she would not be here right now. She would not need to have an artist sketch out the details of his children’s infancy, because Jon would be there to see it himself.

She doesn’t know what she feels for him. She cannot settle on an emotion. Her thoughts, her feelings, her emotions shift constantly. Sometimes hourly. One moment she is longing for him, desperate to get back what they once had. The next she is so furious with him that she never wants to think his name, let alone see him, ever again.

But one thought is a constant. She never doubts, even for a moment, that he deserves to know his children.

The only question is _how_ to make this come about.

The babes deserve all the things both she, and Jon never had. She had promised them that she would give them that. But right now they have no Kepa. So, she is failing them.

However, if she were to send a message informing Jon of the children now, they will almost certainly lose their Muña, possibly even their own short, precious little lives. Which would be failing them too.

She is stuck at the most painful, impossible impasse.

Just as she does not want her children to grow up without a father, she similarly does not want them to grow up motherless. This thought does not stem from a selfish desire for self-preservation – she does not want to die, it is true. Of course she doesn’t. Not now. Not when she has a home, and a family, and a fight worth fighting – it is more than that. Both she and Jon had grown up without the love of a mother. It had taken a heavy toll on both of them. She does not want that for their children either.

Most of all though, she wants them to _get_ to grow up.

The thought of them losing their lives. Of them being slaughtered like her niece and nephew – Jon’s brother and sister – fills her with a dread so paralyzing that she struggles to breath when considering it. She will not allow that. Not ever.

She knows her children are well protected. That there are four large armies filled with people who would kill, and die for them if need be. But she also knows how Varys works. He is sneaky. Underhanded. A coward. Poison in a cup, an assassin hiding in plain sight. She had spent her own childhood – if her formative years could even rightly be called a childhood – running, running, always running from his schemes and plans to remove her from this world. She will not have her children know that constant fear. They will only know safety and love. So, for now, until she manages to gain a better understanding of the situation in Westeros, Jon must remain ignorant of the fact that he is a father of two. For the sake of his children’s lives.

Missandei is currently humming to the sleeping children. She keeps asking her about names. About what she plans to call them. Dany shakes her head playfully and refuses to answer her. She says she loves her like a sister, but she wants to tell everyone together. Missandei is, as always, understanding about this.

Her people arrive back in Meereen, proud and victorious a few days later. She asks Grey Worm and Missandei to spread the word that she would like to address everyone that night. To ask them to all gather. It is time for her children to meet their family.

Marva pops over, as she has taken to doing frequently, and asks if it is alright if the Chosen Leaders, and the people of Meereen attend as well. They have been very excited to meet the babes.

Dany smiles widely and agrees. She had much to thank the people of Meereen for, and this will be a good opportunity to do it.

But before she presents the children to her people, there is one other, very important introduction she must make.

She places the twins in a beautiful woven basket, it had been one of the many gifts left for them outside their home, showers their tiny cheeks in kisses, and covers them gently in a white, cotton blanket, before picking them up and carrying them outside.

People wave and call out to her, cry out blessings for her babes, smiling as she passes. She returns their waves and smiles, thanks them for their blessings, tells them she will see them this evening, as she walks on to her destination.

She approaches Drogon and Rhaegal’s nest cautiously. She wants to introduce her dragon children to their human siblings, but truly, she has no idea how this meeting will go.

Drogon and Rhaegal both had seemed protective and in love with the babes when they were still in her belly. But was that simply their love for her, their mother, that she could feel? Will they be jealous of these two new creatures? Will they think that they will steal away some of their mother’s love and affection? She’s almost certain that is not the case. The love they had radiated then had felt different. It was a new, excited, curious kind. But she still plans to be careful.

Both dragons are gnawing on what seems to be the bones of a cow.

“Drogon? Rhaegal?” she calls to them softly.

They lift their heads immediately, as though they had been waiting for her. She supposes they might have been. She hasn’t visited them in two weeks. But, but, there is an aura of anticipation in the air. They are both staring at her silently. Normally they greet her loudly with chirrups and cries. Today they remain quiet.

No, no they are not staring at her. They are staring at the basket.

What happens next has her biting her cheek so hard in an attempt to stifle her laughter that she’s afraid she’ll draw blood.

She never thought that she would see dragons tip toe. But that is the best way to describe what they begin to do.

Quiet as mice. Quieter than creatures of their size have any right to be, both of her children pick their way slowly, and carefully towards her. They stop at a respectful distance and look imploringly at her.

She senses their eagerness, their curiosity, their love. She smiles widely at them. “Go ahead, my darlings, say hello to your new brother and sister.”

Now that they have permission, they both crane their long necks to peer into the basket, nudging one another gently – nothing like the rough and tumble play they usually engage in when vying for attention - in an attempt to be the one with the best view. 

Soft, low purrs of happiness come from both of them as they gaze upon the babes.

Slowly, Drogon extends his right wing, and wraps it around her. At the same time, Rhaegal extends his left around her other side so that both she and the babes are completely encased by them. Ensconced and surrounded by her children’s fierce love and protection. She cannot remember ever having felt so safe in her entire life.

Their heads are still as close to the basket as they can get. Their gleaming, intelligent eyes focused entirely on the babes. A rumble comes from them both, and it sounds very much like a sigh of contentment.

The blow warm air through their nostrils in the direction of the babes. She’s almost alarmed before she hears the sweet little coos. Sees the wiggles of delight. The wide eyes and open grins. Her children love it. They, like her, must relish the warmth, the heat.

She reaches her hand up and strokes first Rhaegal, then Drogon firmly and lovingly along their noses. “Thank you my sweet ones. Thank you for welcoming your siblings. Thank you for loving them. Thank you for protecting them.”

Because she knows that that is what this is. A promise from her dragon children to always take care of her human ones.

“I better go now.” She says, readjusting her grip on the basket.

Drogon lets out a very low whine.

“I’m sorry, darling. But I will be back soon.”

Drogon eyes the basket greedily and hopefully.

She laughs, and her human son’s lips split into his characteristic smile, “Yes, Drogon, I will bring your siblings back too. I promise.”

She gives them both a loving kiss, and they reluctantly unfurl their wings, removing the safe cocoon she and the babes had been in, allowing her to leave.

It is early evening, the sun will set in another hour or so, and it is time to speak to her people. To introduce her children to them. She is very excited to do so.

She walks out to the designated area and sees that a small platform has been erected, presumably for her to stand on. She asks Grey Worm, Qhono, and MIssandei to stand with her.

As she stands on the platform her heart fills with love, looking out at all of these people. The Dothraki, the Unsullied, the citizens of Meereen who have shown up in droves. They are all here because they love her, and they want to meet her children. It is overwhelming in the best possible way. She is going to have to do her best not to break down and cry at how much this all means to her. She never thought she would have this. A family who loved her. Children of her own.

She speaks in Valyrian – it is the language that the majority of those present speak – and has Daario stand near the Dothraki and translate for those who do not yet speak Valyrian well enough. Though their comprehension of Valyrian, and the people of Meereen’s comprehension of Dothraki is growing daily as the peoples integrate, trade together, and work together towards their common goals.

“Thank you everyone for being here tonight on this very special occasion for me. It means more than I can adequately express to be able to share this moment with you all. Firstly, thank you, so very much, to the people of Meereen for your precious, and wonderful gifts. My children and I will cherish each and every one of them. We are most humbled and grateful for your kindness, and your generosity.”

“As you know, I have called you all here to present to you my son and my daughter. They are my children, but you, all of you, are their family, as you are mine. They are the children of Essos. I do not know who they will grow to be, or what they will want to do, but I hope that they will feel the same love, pride, and protectiveness for their family as I do. One day, when I am gone, Drogon and Rhaegal will be theirs. This is a responsibility I will ensure they do not take lightly, and I hope that they too, will endeavour to use this responsibility gifted to them to keep Essos free for all of its people. For you, for your children. For your children’s children.”

“Had it not been for the love, loyalty, courage, and support of the Dothraki and the Unsullied, my babes and I would have been murdered in Westeros. It is to you, my people, my family, that I owe our lives. Which is why I wanted to honour you all in my children’s names. Their names shall honour all of their family. I also wanted their names to embody the spirit of the new Essos we are trying to build. The spirit of freedom. Freedom for all. And the spirit of faith. Faith in ourselves, and in one another.”

She bends down and picks up her son, turning him in her arms so that the people may see him.

“So please allow me, with great happiness and pride, to present to you my son. His name is Greykharo Dāerves Ionos Sōnaro Targaryen. Greykharo, in part, for one of the bravest, and most loyal men I have had the pleasure of knowing, and one of my dearest friends. The Commander of the Unsullied, Grey Worm.”

She turns and passes the babe to Grey Worm only to see that his usual stoic face has an expression of shock and disbelief on it, his eyes wide and staring into hers. Her heart thumps painfully in her chest as she sees a tear slide its way down his cheek as he takes her son into his arms and cradles him so gently.

“The other part is for Rakharo, who was my first bloodrider when I was nothing but a young Khaleesi with a tiny khalasar. He died serving me bravely, and selflessly, and he rides now and forever with his ancestors in the Night Lands.”

The Dothraki let out a resounding cheer, stomping their feet.

She smiles and continues.

“Dāerves, for freedom. The freedom we have, the freedom we will continue to fight for and protect. And Ionos Sōnaro Targaryen, for his father.”

She had thought long and hard about including Sōnaro in their names. If the claims made before she had fled were to be believed then Jon is not a Snow at all. Nor is he a Jon. He is Aegon Targaryen. But she does not know Aegon Targaryen. She doubts Jon does either. Or at least he didn’t. Either way, Aegon Targaryen is not the man she once fell in love with, he is not the man she laid with. Aegon Targaryen is not the father of these babes. Jon Snow is. She thinks, maybe, he would prefer it that way as well. Though she has no way of knowing. 

As the shouts, and cries of blessings die down, she bends to pick up her daughter, turning her the way she did with her brother, so that she may face her family.

“It is with great honour, and joy that I present to you all my daughter, Missandirri Vokēdre Daenerys Sōnaro Targaryen. Named for my dearest friend, the kindest, most intelligent person I have had the privilege to know Missandei.”

She turns and hands the baby to Missandei who is openly weeping and smiling at her with wobbly lips.

“And for Irri, who taught me the ways and language of my first true people, the Dothraki.”

Again, the Dothraki cheer loudly at this.

“Vokēdre for faith. The faith that has kept me standing all these years. Faith I want my daughter to have in herself. And for the faith that I have in all of you, and that you must all have in yourselves. And, Daenerys Sōnaro Targaryen, unashamedly,” she smiles at the crowd, “for her mother. Who loves her more than it is possible to say.”

Cheers explode from the gathered crowd.

Cries of “Greykharo Dāerves”, “Missandirri Vokēdre” “Daenerys Mīsio” rise into the air, overlapping one another in a melodious harmony of voices. It is the sweetest music Dany has ever heard. It is the music of home. Of family. Of belonging.

She turns to Grey Worm and Missandei who are holding the babes and smiling.

“I hope you two do not mind, me surprising you like that. I wanted to do something for you, something to show you how much I love and appreciate you both.”

Missandei pulls her into a tight, one armed hug, still cradling Missandirri carefully.

“I do not know what to say,” she gasps out. She is still a little weepy. “I am honoured, and flattered, and proud, and I love you.”

Dany squeezes her back tightly, “And I love you. The honour is all mine.”

They both turn to Grey Worm who is looking down at little Greykharo with a softness so rarely seen on his face.

“Grey Worm?” she begins tentatively. “Are you alright?”

He looks up at her.

“I told you once before that the name Grey Worm gave me pride, even though it was supposed to remind me that I was nothing, that I was a slave. It gave me pride because it was the name I had the day I became a free man. Now, now I have no words to tell you how much more pride the name gives me, for Daenerys Jelmazmo to name her son this name. For his name to mean also freedom. The name of a former slave to be the name of the son of the Breaker of Chains. You have always made me feel pride in my name. But today, there is no word for the amount of pride I feel today to be called Grey Worm.”

Dany is crying. Missandei is crying. Grey Worm is crying.

The huddle together in a hug, careful not to squash the babes, and Qhono throws his arms around them all.

“You picked good, strong names, Khaleesi.” He says to her, and she turns and kisses him on his cheek in thanks.

A huge feast has been organised and they celebrate late into the night. People coming up constantly to take a glance at the twins. To compliment their beauty and sweetness. Dany is far from modest as she agrees with each and every one of them that her twins are, indeed, the most perfect things this world has ever seen.

Eventually, she Grey Worm, Missandei and Qhono leave the festivities and retire to her home.

Qhono is holding a babe in each arm. They look positively tiny cradled gently against his large frame. He is whispering to them in rapid Dothraki how they both have the spirit of the Great Stallion inside them. And that, until they are big enough to ride dragons like their mother, he, Qhono, will teach them to ride horses so swiftly that it will feel like they are riding on the wind.

Dany is smiling broadly at him. He looks so proud of them. As though they are his own.

Throughout the evening, they had decided that while the names are a touching tribute to their family, they are something of a mouthful.

Dany knew this. She knew it when she was naming them. But she had wanted to include everyone she loved, everyone who was a part of her children’s family, in some capacity.

They had decided between them that Aro was a good shortening of Greykharo’s name. Somehow it suited the little boy perfectly.

But they had come up short for Missandirri.

“What about Mirri?” Missandei asks suddenly, looking at the little girl.

Dany positively blanches.

Missandei, of course, noticed immediately.

“Daenerys? What is it? Do you not like it? I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

Dany nods slowly. It wasn’t Missandei’s fault. She knew the story of the witch’s curse, but she did not know the witch’s name.

And that was because, for years, the name Mirri Maz Duur had caused her blood to freeze in her veins even to think it. She never spoke it aloud. And now, all those who had known her. Known the name. Were as dead as she was.

Mirri Maz Duur had tried to destroy her. She had taken from her. She had lied to her.

But Dany had not been destroyed.

Mirri Maz Duur had perished on that pyre, and Dany had risen from it stronger than she had ever been.

She had not been destroyed because she had had faith. Faith in herself. The same faith she had gifted her daughter in her name.

And Mirri Maz Duur had been wrong. Deceitful, duplicitous, and wrong. Her living, breathing, healthy babes were proof of that.

Her mind was beginning to change. Oh, but what a delicious ‘fuck you’ it would be to the cursed spirit of Mirri Maz Duur for her beautiful daughter, the daughter the wretched witch had told her she would never have, to carry her name. To turn it into a name that bought light and warmth to her heart instead of dread. To serve as living proof that faith was more powerful than those who would try to destroy you.

Dany smiles at Missandei, and Missandei looks relieved to see it. She felt terrible for worrying her friend so.

“Mirri is perfect.” She said. “Mirri, and Aro.”

Missandei raises her glass of wine in the air, “To Mirri, and Aro.”

“To Mirri, and Aro.” They all echoed joyfully.

They are all chatting happily amongst themselves, taking turns to hold and admire the babes when Marro walks in.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Khaleesi, but I thought you should see this,” he says handing her a dagger.

She takes it from him, looking slightly perplexed.

“Khaleesi isn’t this your glass? The glass we mined to kill the ice men?” he asks.

She looks down and examines the blade more closely.

There is no mistaking it. It is indeed a blade made of dragonglass. And, if her suspicious are correct, the handle is made from the strong, sturdy ironwood of the North.

“Where did you get this?” She asks Marro.

“I won it from a man in a bet on the way back from Yunkai. He said he bought it in Pentos. I said it was not his to buy because it belongs to my Khaleesi. He would not give it up so I had to wager with him for it. I thought you should have it because it is yours.”

Dany nods at him. She is listening, but she is thinking quickly too.

This is Jon’s doing. She doesn’t know how or why she is so sure, but she is. He is making trade, gathering resources. Most likely to aid in bolstering his forces for his war to claim the Iron Throne.

She’s happy for him. She is. Happy that he is doing well, getting what he needs, making things happen.

She is sad for their babes.

If he is successful in getting what he wants - and for as long as she has known him he has always been successful in getting what he wants - regardless of why he wants it, because she still does not believe he truly wants the Throne for himself, for the sake of having it, then he will be King of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon Targaryen Sixth of his Name. And when that comes to pass... when that comes to pass will there ever be a time that it will be safe for her to tell him about their children?

In Westeros they would be considered bastards. But that does not mean that they won’t be considered a threat to his rule. Especially since she is their mother. 

She wants him to be successful and happy. She does. She just wishes he had wanted to succeed at something other than claiming the Seven Kingdoms. When she left Westeros she had truly, honestly never thought he would even try. She had been naïve and foolish. She, once again, had underestimated the influence of the Spider’s slippery words.

But she knows now, from the letter he sent to Meereen, and now this, that he _is_ trying.

Perhaps it wasn’t that she hadn’t thought he would try, perhaps she just hadn’t wanted him to.

Was that selfish?

Regardless of whether it is or not, he is, now, trying.

Can he hope to be successful? She would never bet against Jon. He is the most resourceful man she knows. What he lacks in diplomacy he makes up for in strength of character, in conviction.

But the odds against him are horrendous. She knows this. Because they had been bad odds against her and she had two armies, and two dragons.

She needs to do something. She needs more information. She will not send anyone to Westeros. She will not do that to her people. So she does the next best thing. She sends groups of emissaries and messengers to the coastal cities of Essos. Pentos, Braavos, Lorath. These would be the ones he would be trading with.

She hopes that they can find out something of what is going on. Sometimes more can be found out in a tavern than a Council meeting. Daario had taught her that.

As for the messengers... there are a few people that she would do well to be in contact with, on good terms with.

Just in case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations (Valyrian to English):
> 
> Dāerves - Freedom
> 
> Ionos - Jon
> 
> Sōnaro - Snow
> 
> Vokēdre - Faith
> 
> Mīsio - Protector


	14. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, we're back at Winterfell. Look at that...
> 
> I'm not particularly happy with how this turned out. It has been a long time since I have updated this fic, and it was not easy to get back into the tone of writing it.
> 
> Nonetheless, I wanted to update it and move the story forward. So... *HERE* throws it at you all.
> 
> This chapter picks up straight from where we left the last Winterfell chapter.
> 
> Happy (slightly) belated birthday to notreadyforprimetimeemmy. Love you, my dear xx
> 
> This chapter is for Momo01, and their inordinately talented friend - thank you for the stunning, beautiful, amazing, glorious, is now my phone background (you even supplanted my cats) banner that you made for this fic (see, Chapter Ten).
> 
> This chapter is also for Angelvg5 - I love you and your incredible support xxx

_**Jon** _

Groggily, Jon blinks his eyes open. Though it is hard to tell these days, with winter upon them in full force, he believes it is rather early in the morning. Only a few people are stirring in the sleeping hall. The rest remain in various states of shivering, fitful repose.

He can feel the tacky residue of dried tears on his face and is not surprised. He knows that he had fallen into his own short and restless sleep while crying. He believes he may have continued doing so well after he’d succumbed to slumber.

_Dany._

He had been thinking about her. Grieving for her. Longing for her. Apologising to her.

_How_ could he have forgotten about her? How?

He can feel the grooved indentation on his palm, the product of clasping tight to his dragonglass necklace all night long.

‘Good’, he thinks to himself. He wants it marked on his skin always. Marked on his skin the way she is marked on his heart.

He misses her terribly. He needs her desperately. Not her armies, not her dragons… _her_. Just, just her. He needs to hold her in his arms again. He needs to hear her say that everything is going to be alright. That he is doing a good job of caring for his people. That he is a good King. That she believes in him.

He wants her support. He wants her forgiveness. He wants her love.

But most of all, he wants to tell her that he loves her.

More than anything.

That he loves her and he never stopped. Despite what it might have looked like, or felt like to her.

Uncaring of how freezing cold he knows they will be, Jon wants nothing more than to escape to his chambers for the day and wallow in the misery, guilt, and grief he is flooded with. He wants to take the day and think of nothing but Dany. Think of her like he should have been thinking of her every single day.

However, as he hears shuffling footsteps moving closer to him he knows it is not to be.

He rises and comes face to face with Varys who is looking wan. Though, he supposes most of them are. The North, and the people in it, are doing little more than surviving right now. They are not living. This is not living. They are simply hanging on. Hanging on and desperately hoping something will change soon.

And all of those hopes are pinned on him.

“Your Grace,” Varys greets him, inclining his head slightly.

Jon grumbles in response and pulls himself to standing. He’ll be damned if he is ever in any kind of position of disadvantage when it comes to Varys.

“Now that you have finally finished messing around with the matter of supplies…”

“Messing around?” Jon interrupts him incredulously. “How is providing for my people, my _starving_ people, _messing around_? You served Queen Daenerys, you know what she believed, that the function of Kings and Queens was to protect those who could not protect themselves. Did you not subscribe to that philosophy, Varys? Did you want or have faith in _any_ of the things she so passionately desired for her people? Or were you simply serving her because doing so suited your best interests at the time?”

His voice had gotten louder and louder as he’d interrogated Varys and he can see that the entire Hall is now awake and watching him warily.

“I serve the realm, Your Grace. I have never made a secret of that fact. I joined Daenerys because she appeared to be the most suitable candidate.”

There’s something in the way Varys said that that itches at Jon’s skin. Raises his hackles slightly. Something is off. He just can’t, he just can’t quite discern what it is. Varys speaks truths, but something in them feels like they are not full truths. That they are a screen concealing a much larger agenda.

Whatever it is, Jon vows to himself that he will get to the bottom of it. Of all of it. And if that means playing along with Varys until the man has been given enough rope to hang himself, then so be it.

And so he nods, as amicably as he can manage, at Varys to continue.

Mollified, Varys does just that. “As I was saying, now that the pressing matter of supplies has been masterfully taken care of, all thanks to you, Your Grace,” _Gods_ does Varys really think himself so clever that Jon will accept and bask in his simpering praises and platitudes? Or does he think Jon such a simpleton that he will? He knows that Dany hadn’t believed every word that the spider had insipidly spun. She’d been too astute for that. Something Varys had known and had been endlessly frustrated by.

Well, Jon is no fool either. Though it is becoming clear that Varys thinks he might be. As insulting as this is, he knows he can use it to his advantage. There is great power that comes with being underestimated.

“Thank you, Varys,” he replies as graciously as he can, gritting his teeth so hard against the platitude that he fears he might break them.

“Yes, well, now that that matter is being seen to, and all we can do is wait on the return of Lady Yara.”

“Queen Yara,” Jon interrupts again. “We have made a pact to respect the independence of one another’s Kingdoms. A pact I intend to honour.”

Varys looks like he wants to argue, but then think better of it.

“Yes, Queen Yara. Well, as we wait for her return I feel it is prudent that we hold a Council to discuss matters going forward.” And before Jon can even begin to object, Varys continues, “I have asked everyone to convene in an hour. I shall see you then, Your Grace.” He inclines his head again, scuttling off quickly before Jon can voice his displeasure at this arrangement.

Though, he does know that it is an unfortunate necessity. The price he took on when he agreed to this. The price of protecting the North. Of protecting his ungrateful family. The only family he has left to him now that Dany is gone.

An hour later he walks into the Council room, glad that someone had had the foresight to light a fire, though the air is still frigid and damp. All of the regular people are in attendance and Jon looks them over thoughtfully as he moves to take his place at the head of the table.

They all look grimy, miserable, peaked. This is unsurprising. Food is scant, the Keep is barely above freezing, and their situation is approaching the same level of direness that it had been when they had an army of the dead marching towards their gates.

Tyrion in particular looks more morose than the others. His heart goes out to the man. He pities him deeply. This is not what Tyrion signed up for. Tyrion had chosen and backed a formidable, compassionate, idealistic Queen who only judged others based upon their character. A Queen who had the resources and the fortitude to take the Throne. He had loved her, and he had lost her, and Jon knows he grieves for her still. He grieves for her and the world she would have made.

And now he is stuck with Jon.

That is not an entirely fair assessment.

He knows that Tyrion is fond of him, that he believes him to be a fine leader. But he does not love him the way that he had loved Daenerys. Daenerys who had not cared that he was a dwarf. Daenerys who had not even cared that he was a Lannister. Daenerys who had seen him for who he is, and his value for what it is. But here, here in the North, where the phrase ‘The North remembers’ – which was supposed to be invoked to demonstrate honour and a sense of duty – is now wielded as a double-edged sword. The meaning of it has twisted over time and is now used to justify any number of grudges and petty grievances. The North will never forgive Tyrion for being a Lannister. They look down upon him and resent his place on Jon’s Council. He went from being a well respected Hand, friend, and occasional confidante to a woman he admired, to being begrudged his place, begrudged his life, begrudged the very roof he sleeps under and the food he eats. The Northern Lords, Jon knows, go out of their way to make Tyrion feel small, to make him feel unwelcome. And he knows that if Tyrion had anywhere else to go right now he likely would have left a long time ago.

Jon cannot say that he blames him. Hells, if he had anywhere else to go he would similarly want to leave and never look back.

But neither of them have that luxury, that option. And so, they both stay.

Before Jon can even settle himself properly Varys begins, clearly impatient. Clearly annoyed that plans for taking the Throne had been waylaid in favour of making plans for survival.

“I will admit that the responses to my missives informing Westeros of the existence of their true King have been disappointing.” An understatement if ever Jon has heard one. “Until we can convince the Citadel to intervene we need to devise another strategy to authenticate the story. We need a witness. One whose word is beyond reproach. One who the Lords will have no choice but to believe.”

Silence engulfs the room. It seems an impossible task.

Finally, almost boredly, Bran drawls out, “Howland Reed was with Father at the Tower of Joy when he took Jon. He lives still.”

A maniacal glimmer flits into Varys’ eyes. “Reed you say?”

Bran merely nods.

“He is a sworn vassal to House Stark is he not?”

“He is,” Sansa answers. “From Greywater Watch.”

“As the Lady of Winterfell you must summon him here at once. He is exactly what we need.” Demands Varys sounding energised.

Surprisingly, Sansa makes no objection. Not to being told what to do, nor to helping. Instead she smiles almost slyly at Varys and promises that she will send a raven as soon as the meeting is concluded.

Instead of feeling encouraged by his cousin’s sudden willingness to be of service Jon is flooded with a deep feeling of concern. Looking around the room he can tell that this sentiment is shared by both Davos and Tyrion. Something is amiss here. He just needs to know what it is.

Next the conversation turns to the gathering of potential allies.

Though he is clearly loathe to admit it, Varys acknowledges that, currently, they have no way to get a foothold in the Stormlands. He then turns the conversation to rejoice in the fact that that they now have the Iron Island firmly on their sides.

Jon is quick to shut this down. The Iron Islands are reluctant allies at best. Yara, he knows, only agreed to work with him because it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Besides, he reminds them, the Iron Islands are independent from the Seven Kingdoms now, and he, as King, has chosen to honour that. Yara is their Queen now.

At this pronouncement Sansa gets a very sour look on her face, but a sharp glare from Jon has her holding her venomous tongue.

The attending Lords of the North then begin to bemoan their current circumstances. Frustration and anger driving them.

“Your Grace, this situation is unacceptable. We should not be living in squalor as we are, forced to share meals and quarters with commoners when you are the true King of the Seven Kingdoms.” Exclaims one. “We should be back in our homes, enjoying the comforts that are our due as Lords and as Northerners.”

“Even if, by some miracle I was to become King tomorrow it would still be moons, many moons, maybe even years before the North, or the rest of the Kingdoms which would also be my responsibility,” Jon reminds them because he knows that they have forgotten this – that they believe themselves the top, perhaps the _only_ priority, “are back to the way you want them to be. This continent has been devastated by years and years of wars, that is not something that can be fixed overnight.”

“Personally I do not understand why we are sitting on our asses waiting for witnesses and allies. We are Northerners. We should take the fight straight to them. We defeated the army of the dead,” another Lord proclaims loudly, “Of course we can destroy the Lannister cunt.”

Jon scrubs his hands hard over his face and groans. How quickly these ungrateful, prideful fucks forget that without Dany, her armies and her dragons they wouldn’t have had a chance in all of the seven hells of surviving.

No, to them it was a purely Northern victory. Fought by Northerners. Won by Northerners. Gods forbid they give even a shred of credit to foreign armies.

“Are you blind or just wilfully ignorant?” Jon snaps at the Lord. “What do you see when you look around Winterfell? We do not have the men. Had Queen Daenerys not come and saved us when she did we would all be dead. Thanks to her not all of us are, but even so the fighting men we have left are few in numbers and growing weaker by the day from the cold and scarce rations. We would be fighting against every army in the Seven bloody Kingdoms. The fucking Golden Company is waiting for us at the bottom, not a one of us would make it past the Neck. We don’t have the resources to march South.”

His outburst effectively ends the meeting and everyone begins to shuffle out. The Lords glaring at him as though it is his fault that the situation has become so desperate. And, to his consternation and suspicion, he catches a few of them looking hopefully towards Sansa who has a tiny, smug little smile pulling at the corners of her usually pinched mouth.

Varys attempts to corner him again but he successfully manoeuvres around him claiming he has duties to attend to.

This is a lie. He needs time alone. Time to think.

He has a lot of that in the following week as they await the arrival of Howland Reed who responded to their raven saying that he would make his way to the Keep.

The atmosphere that week in Winterfell is listless with everyone simply waiting around in hopeful anticipation that Howland Reed will be the answer to all of their problems.

Jon spends most of his time sequestered alone in his frozen solar thinking of Dany. Thumbing his dragonglass necklace and reading her diary. He is determined. He will _not_ forget about her again. She deserves so much more than that. 

He also uses some of this time to think and reflect on his own position.

The responses from the other noble Houses of Westeros had given him much to consider.

When Sam had first told him the story of his parents he had accepted it all at face value. As truth. He had, after all, no reason to doubt his brother nor his best friend – or so he had thought at the time.

Now however, he has much more information to work with.

It is clear to his mind now that, whatever it is Sam claims he read, and Bran claims he saw, he is, without a doubt, still a bastard. That much has not changed. The only thing that changed is that he is now a Targaryen bastard, not a Stark bastard.

He knows little of the Faith of the Seven, and littler still of the laws pertaining to royal marriages – however, considering the sometimes vehement replies Varys had received, it seems clear that an annulment of Rhaegar’s marriage to the Princess Elia would have been unlawful. He _does_ know that both the Seven, and the Old Gods would not allow the taking of a second wife.

Whatever his parents did, or thought they were doing, it was unlawful in the eyes of both Gods and men.

They may have loved one another. They may have loved him. But they were not married.

He finds that this does not bother him. Still being a bastard.

Truthfully, from the moment it became clear that Dany cared little and less about the status of his birth, he began to stop caring about it either. His bastardy had been a stain upon him, a heavy yoke tied around his neck all of his life that had made him angry and sullen. But when he began to see himself through her eyes, the way she saw him, the way she _looked_ at him, the way she _believed_ in him, that weight had lifted day by day until suddenly, almost without him realising it, it had disappeared entirely.

No, he does not mind being a bastard. Indeed, he is almost amused at how fervently all of these people who had looked down upon him for it all of his life, are now so determined to prove that he was born the truest of trueborns.

He snorts with outright laughter one day when he realises that, technically, Gendry, as a Baratheon bastard, has just as much of a claim to the Throne as he does.

He is certain that Gendry would want it just as little.

Davos and Tyrion stop by to keep him company sometimes. But they do their best to keep conversation light and they always leave before they have a chance to overstay their welcome and annoy him. He is grateful to them both.

Sansa is conspicuous only by her absence, and he knows he should be doing something to find out what she is scheming but it feels like an impossible task. He doesn’t have the talent for stabbing people in the back while smiling at their face the way that she does.

His only concern is the well-being of his people. The measures he implemented continue to run smoothly, and until Yara returns there is not much else he can do for them.

Varys darkens his doorway and hounds his steps every chance he gets, always trying to catch him alone, to whisper in his ear. But he has become particularly adept at dodging the man.

Finally the day comes when Howland Reed arrives.

Jon awaits him in the Council room flanked, as always, by Davos, Tyrion, Varys, Sansa, Arya, Brienne, and Bran. They had decided to leave the Lords out of this meeting (which had naturally caused the pompous asses to grumble) given the delicate nature of the subject matter.

The door is opened by one of his guards and two people walk in.

One is a man who Jon knows must be Howland Reed.

He looks much older than his years. His face creased and troubled. His walk slow.

Beside him is a young woman around Arya’s age. Her stride is much more purposeful, and there is a barely restrained fury in her eyes that has Jon simultaneously curious and full of trepidation.

Suddenly he does not think that this meeting is going to go the way that everyone wants it to.

A part of him is exultantly relieved by that fact. But he doesn’t have, nor take the time to examine why at this moment.

“We were summoned?” demands the girl in a clipped voice, not bothering with pleasantries or introductions. She trails her assessing gaze across every single one of them except for Bran who she studiously ignores.

Even more curious.

“Have some respect,” snipes Sansa. “You are in the presence of your Liege.”

The girl’s icy glare intensifies, now fixed solely on Sansa, and Davos gives a quick cough drawing attention to him.

He waits, thinking Sansa will continue, but when it becomes clear that she will not Davos makes the introduction instead.

“You are also in the presence of Aegon Targaryen, Sixth of his name. Rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms. Rightful King of the Andals and the First Men.” He announces, shooting a baleful look at Sansa for having neglected to announce Jon herself.

As usual, she looks unrepentant.

Howland’s eyes flicker up to his. Shock and a glimmer of interest showing.

“Jon?” he croaks out. “Ned’s Jon?”

Jon nods kindly, this man is clearly extremely uncomfortable and he wishes to set him at ease. It almost works before Varys ruins it.

“That is not who he truly is, and you know it. That is why we have summoned you here.”

Howland looks taken aback. The girl is very nearly growling.

“You were with Ned Stark at the Tower of Joy the day he plucked that babe from his dying sister’s arms. You must testify to this fact before the assembled Lords of the Seven Kingdoms.” Insists Varys, getting straight to the point.

“No,” screams the girl with such anger in her voice that Jon feels it in his marrow. She is a fierce one.

“Meera, daughter please,” mutters Howland.

The girl, Meera, her eyes soften as she looks at her father, but they harden again as she glares back at them all.

Howland sighs deeply. He seems to be struggling to find his words, but when he does he fixes his gaze straight at Jon.

“I loved and admired Ned Stark. He was the reason why I always remained stalwart in my loyalty to House Stark. But he was a singular man, different from the rest of them - honourable, noble. I believe it was his fostering with Jon Arryn that made him such. Did you know he named you for him? For the man who was a father to him in all but name. Same as he was to you?” Howland has a small smile on his face as though remembering something fond, and Jon cannot help but smile back. He had wondered about his name. Often wondered if he had been named for the man his Uncle fostered with and admired so greatly. To hear it confirmed, the way Howland said it, it warms something in him.

“But had his brother Rickard lived to become Lord of Winterfell,” Howland continues, shaking his head slightly, “I know that my loyalty would not have been so absolute. It was Ned to whom I was loyal. Not his House. I knew your uncle well, and that is why I was so loyal to him. Why I risked so much for him. Why I kept his secrets. I mean no offence,” he winces nodding towards Jon, “but I do not know you. I do not know what kind of man you are. And so I cannot blindly do for you what I would have done for Ned.” The man looks apologetic, but Jon understands.

“It doesn’t matter if you know him or not, he is your King” Sansa all but shrieks, glaring down at Howland.

Oh, oh the hypocrisy of his cousin. She who would not trust Dany because she did not know her but now expects the opposite because it would benefit her.

“It does matter” Jon states firmly and sincerely looking into Howland’s eyes meaningfully before turning to glare at Sansa.

He too would be a hypocrite if he said it didn’t matter. He recalls how he had thrown those same words at his sweet Dany, an age ago at Dragonstone, before he knew what a remarkable person she truly was. He remembers telling her that he didn’t know her so he could not, in good conscience accept her as his Queen.

Beside him, Varys looks desperate though he is trying his best to hide it.

“Lord Reed,” Varys simpers, “You must understand the gravity of this situation. You know who this man is. You were there the day he was born. You know who his parents were. They were wed. He is their trueborn son. For the sake of the realm you must testify to this fact so that the rightful King may claim his Throne.”

Howland sighs again. He is a weary man, Jon can tell. Weighed down by life and whatever trials it has put him through. He looks up again at Jon, and speaks as though speaking only to him.

“I cannot, on my honour, attest to all that you want me to. Yes, I was with your Uncle when he took you from your mother’s arms. And yes, I know your mother was Lady Lyanna, and I know who sired you it is true. But as to the rest,” he shrugs and it looks heavy, “I have no knowledge of any such annulment or marriage. I was not there and nothing of the sort was ever confided in me. Indeed,” he scratches at his scraggly chin and looks out into the distance, his gaze unfocused, “I do not know how it would have even been possible. The dragon prince had a wife and children. Neither the Gods nor the laws would have allowed him to take another wife.” 

There are a few beats of deep, deafening, poignant silence following that statement. And he knows that everyone in the room is remembering some of the various replies Varys had received.

Naturally, of course, it is fucking Sansa who breaks the moment of contemplation.

“I am the Lady of Winterfell. You will do this, say this, all of it, because I command you to. As your Liege you cannot refuse me. It is your duty to obey House Stark.”

Oh, but she should have kept her mouth shut.

While Howland was clearly doing his best to maintain decorum, his daughter Meera had no such compunctions. “What you’re asking of my father is nothing short of suicide,” she growls at them. “When Cersei hears what he is doing she, or someone sworn to her will take his head. And I will not allow it.” She states firmly, angrily. “My family has more than paid our dues to the Starks. We have already lost enough for them. Bled enough for them.” She whips her head around furiously and turns her wild, angry gaze on Bran “My brother _died_ for you,” she screams at him while Bran merely looks on dispassionately.

Jon wonders if they have all been fooling themselves calling him Bran, thinking him Bran, when it appears more and more clearly every single day that there is not even a trace of the sweet, boisterous boy that had been their brother left in the cold, emotionless man that sits in his chair.

“He DIED for you,” she screams again, tears leaking down her face which is cracked, grief and rage warring with one another for precedent. “And I, I did everything for you, risked everything for you. _I_ nearly died for you. And as soon as you were back where you wanted to be, as soon as you no longer had need of my _service_ ,” she sneers the word derisively, “you dismissed me as though I was nothing. As though what I had done, and what I had lost for you was nothing. You will take no more from us. We are no longer vassals of House Stark.” 

Bewildered, horrified, Jon turns to look at Bran who, characteristically, is showing no emotion towards Meera’s outburst. Nor is he refuting it.

“Is this true, Bran?” he asks, praying to Gods he no longer believes in that it is not. That his brother had not been so callous with the life and emotions of one who had so clearly cared for him.

Dispassionately, Bran merely nods his head in the affirmative and Jon immediately feels sick.

“Lord Reed, Lady Meera,” he begins, uncertain how to right this wrong. Entirely certain that he cannot. “I thank you for coming here today, and I thank you for your honesty. Lady Meera, I recognise that it is not the apology you need, nor is it one that will suffice, but please allow me to tell you how very sorry I am at how you and your family suffered for, and because of my cousin. You have indeed, done more for House Stark than should be expected of anyone. Both of you. Lord Reed, I would never insult your honour by asking you to lay your name to claims that you do not know to be true. I would offer you our hospitality so that you may rest before your journey home, however I sense that…”

“Thank you, but no,” Meera interrupts him, as he knew she likely would. “We will be going home now.”

Jon nods at her as gently and as kindly as he can.

“You are released. I wish you safe travels back to Greywater Watch.”

Next to him he can hear Varys frantically attempting to dissuade him. To keep them here. To command them. But he will not. These are good people who have been used and abused by his family too much already. He will not be another to do so.

He sinks into his chair, his head in his hands. He wishes he could not believe the things that Meera had told him his cousin had done, but unfortunately, he can. Bran is no longer Bran. The last time he saw Bran he had been an unconscious boy recovering from a fall. Whatever the man in the chair is, he is not his cousin.

The Reeds have fled, and people begin filtering out of the room. In his periphery he can see Varys whispering feverishly to Sansa, can see Sansa calling Arya over to listen as well. But he cannot dwell on that now. His mind is already far too bogged down by despair and grief. He cannot deal with another one of their selfish plots at this moment.

Soon it is just he, Davos, and Tyrion in the room.

That is how he likes it.

He trusts these two men.

Davos because he has always been there for him. Always supported him. Never steered him wrong.

And Tyrion because he is his last link to Dany.

They sit in silence for a time before Davos asks him, tentatively, if he wants to talk about anything that Howland Reed had said.

But he doesn’t. He understands Howland’s point of view perfectly and he cannot fault him for it. Same as he does Meera’s.

“No.” he responds quietly. “But I’d… I’d…” he stutters out, steeling himself to ask this, “I would like to talk about Dany though.”

Tyrion’s mismatched eyes widen in surprise, while Davos smiles fondly, but sadly.

“Of course you would, son, anything in particular about her you want to talk about?” he says placing a comforting, fatherly hand on his shoulder.

“Tell me something sweet, something funny. Something that happened in Essos.” He asks of Tyrion.

Tyrion has a sad, fond smile of his own. A faraway look in his eye. “I’m sure she told you all of her stories,” he replies.

“Perhaps,” he sighs in response, “But I’d like to hear one again, all the same.”

“Alright,” Tyrion indulges him. And for the next hour, or near that, both he and Davos listen raptly as Tyrion recounts his time with Dany across the Narrow Sea. It is, perhaps, the first time he has felt anything close to peace since discovering that Dany was lost to him forever.

This is all shattered in an instant when Gendry comes barrelling through the door, out of breath, his face white and stricken.

All three of them look up, alarmed.

“Your Grace,” he pants, “You need to come. The kennels. Now. You need to come. You need to stop them.”

He races off again, presumably in the direction of the kennels, and all Jon can do is leap to his feet, his heart pounding with worry, and run after him. Davos and Tyrion following at their own pace as fast as they can.

As he nears the kennels he hears Arya’s voice. Though he barely recognises it, cold and taunting as it is.

“Without House Stark you are no one, so, theoretically you should have won this game.” Then she laughs and it sounds unhinged.

He throws open the half closed door and balks and nearly vomits at the sight before him.

“But whether you want it or not you will _always_ be a vassal of House Stark, so you should have answered more wisely. The game would have been far less uncomfortable for you if you had.” Intones Arya coldly delivering hit after hit to a prostrate Meera Reed.

He cannot believe what he is witnessing.

Sansa stands coldly and proudly, watching on. Varys by her side.

He gags as he spots, next to them, Howland Reed, laying lifeless on the frozen, filthy ground, chained around the neck in one of the dog collars, having clearly choked himself to death while frantically trying to reach, trying to save his daughter. His face frozen in its final expression: one of desperation, fear, and agonising grief.

“Stop.” He shouts loudly. So loudly that he thinks the walls of the decrepit kennels shake with it.

Arya does stop, and looks up at him, nonplussed, while Sansa continues to stare impassively.

“What have you done?” He croaks out.

He shakes his head, because that is not what he wanted to say.

He runs over to Meera, and a quick examination proves his nightmare a reality. She is dead.

Arya had beaten her to death.

Sansa. _Arya_.

Fuck.

“Look, look at what you’ve done” Jon bellows at them with horror and rage both flaring in his eyes.

“Calm down, Jon.” Sansa has the nerve to try and scold him. “We were merely doing what needed to be done. The legitimacy of your claim needed his testimony. He was refusing to give it.”

“We were simply,” Arya steps in, “attempting to give him a little incentive to see reason.”

Who are these people? These people he once loved. These people he would have done anything for.

He grabs them both by the elbows and tugs them roughly to where he was standing.

“Look. Just look and see what you have done.” He screams in their ears. “You both know the story of how our uncle grandfather died. This, this, what you’ve done looks just the same.” He tugs at his hair, devastated, and frustrated, and so, so angry.

“You, the both of you, loathed Daenerys because of who her father was. Because of what he did to the Starks.” He cannot help himself, he begins to laugh hysterically, maniacally. “But just look. LOOK.” He screams, grabbing both of their heads and forcing them towards the carnage. “You hated her, but instead it was the two of you who have emulated Aerys perfectly.”

“Hardly,” Sansa has the nerve to scoff, wrenching her head out of his grasp. “We didn’t burn anyone,” she sniffs superiorly.

Jon cannot believe his ears.

“As if the manner in which you choose to enact your cruelty makes the deed any less despicable” he seethes.

“Varys said it was important, Jon.” Arya snaps, wriggling herself free from his hold as well. “He said we needed his testimony. I only thought to play a little game I once learned with Meera. It is not my fault that she forgot her duty to House Stark. They both would have lived if she’d answered true,” Arya scoffs as though she really had only been playing a game and not taking innocent lives.

Jon blinks at them both. Mortified and distraught at what they have become.

“I do not recognise either of you.” He says in nothing but a whisper, but the strength of it carries and chills the very air they are all breathing. “You are no family of mine, not in my eyes. And I wish to the Gods you were no family of mine in truth so that I could have you both executed for what you did here today.” He stops and takes as deep a breath as he can. Though it doesn’t help. “But I will not have your vicious, twisted actions make a Kinslayer of me.”

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Trying to rid himself of the picture before him. Of the knowledge that the perpetrators of such evil were his own cousins. But it doesn’t work. It doesn’t help.

Taking his time, he regathers his strength and glares at them both. 

“You have disobeyed a direct order from your King. I told Lord Reed and his daughter that they were free to leave. But you plotted and wrought carnage. Murdered two innocent people. For these crimes I strip you both of all your titles and positions.” His face is a mask. “You are both treasonous, both traitors, and I hope I never need look upon either of your faces ever again. I will attempt to protect you as I would any of the small folk of the North, but that is all. That is all you will ever have from me again.”

“Jon,” Arya cries, sounding distraught, trying to grab for his arm. But he dodges it as though she has greyscale.

“You cannot do this to me, Jon,” comes Sansa’s far more composed, far more aggravated voice. “I am the Lady of Winterfell. This is my Keep. And once you’ve taken your dead whore’s Throne I shall be Queen of the North.”

Her words sting, as she intended them to do, but he does not let it show.

“You are no longer the Lady of Winterfell because I have just stripped you of that privilege.” He responds coldly. “And I have no idea how even someone as deluded as you could imagine that I would give over the North to your selfish whims and petty cruelty.”

“Varys promised you would,” Sansa screams, her face as red as her hair. Her indignation on full display. “He said if I wrote to cousin Robin and Uncle Edmure then the North would be granted its independence with me as its Rightful Queen.”

“Many Northerners may be selfish, fucking assholes, Sansa. But even they don’t deserve you as their Queen.” He bites out. “Now get out of my sight, both of you. And stay out of it. Lest I take a wanting to have you both thrown in the dungeon. It is only the love and respect I have for your father that stays my hand from that, or exiling you right now.”

Both begin to squabble, but Gendry pulls them away. Thankfully.

Then he is left to face Varys who is doing his very best to appear unaffected.

“Your Grace,” he begins, trying to sound rational “you must understand, we thought it was necessary. What are two lives compared to the good of the realm? We must take the Throne for you. We must.”

“We…” Jon murmurs. “We. That is what this was always about for you wasn’t it Varys? You don’t really care who sits the Throne, do you? Who wears the crown? None of that matters to you so long as you are the man behind that crown, behind that Throne. You don’t give a fuck about the good of the realm. The only thing you give a fuck about is what is good for you.”

Varys is visibly shrinking as he advances upon him. A wolf eyeing its prey.

“But Dany would never have allowed that. She knew what was good. She knew it in her heart. And she wouldn’t have let you stand in her way. Did you kill her for it?” his voice wavers on his scream, but he doesn’t care. “Did you?” He demands grabbing Varys by the robes and shoving him, hard, against the rotting, splintered wall of the kennels.

“Nnnnn, no.” Varys stutters out. One of the few times Jon has ever seen him lose his composure. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t.”

A rough noise, more inhuman than anything he has ever heard breaks its way free from his throat as he pulls back and then slams Varys again, harder against the wall. “If I had even the slightest shed of proof that you did,” he whispers menacingly in his ear, “I’d kill you with my bare hands right here and now.”

He lets Varys go and the spider nearly falls to the floor gasping heavily.

“But I don’t,” he continues, inspecting his nails, feigning nonchalance.

“Of course you don’t, Your Grace, because I didn’t. But together we…”

“There is no _we_ , Varys,” he continues in a cold, cruel tone that he doesn’t even recognise as his own voice. “You have done nothing but cause problems for me, the same as you did for Queen Daenerys. You are worthless, useless, scum. The spider everyone calls you. I will not kill you, because I will not kill a man without proof, but from this moment onwards you are exiled from the North.”

Varys begins to splutter, his hands flailing as though desperate for a hold.

“If you are ever seen here again I will have your head.” He shrugs casually but his eyes are hard and dark, “Or I’ll let Ghost take it. Either way, I suggest you leave.”

Varys is stock still.

“Now.” Jon bellows.

And suddenly Varys is scurrying out of sight. His perfumed robes billowing after him.

The only satisfaction Jon has is in knowing that exiling Varys is a fate worse than death. He has nowhere to go to now. Nowhere to run and hide.

He cannot possibly ingratiate himself with Cersei now. Not after all he has done. He will admit to himself that he takes pleasure in imagining the pampered spider scrambling his way out of the frozen North. He’ll likely die trying.

Jon hopes he does.

Taking in the scene of the kennels his heart stutters.

He would have liked to talk to Howland about his Uncle. Maybe even about his mother if Howland had known anything. He would have liked to try to make things right with Meera following all of Bran’s transgressions against her and her family. But now, thanks to his despicable cousins, he cannot.

He exits the kennels and calls for five of his trusted men. Asks them to gather the bodies and take them, respectfully, to Greywater Watch.

He is exhausted when he falls onto his pallet bed that night. But only nightmares flicker before his eyes.

He grips his dragonglass necklace tighter and wishes for Dany. Wishes she were here to hold, to hold him and to soothe his anger, his fear, his desperate sadness away.

Days, then weeks, then moons pass. Each much the same as the one that came before it.

Without Varys pushing for them Council meetings have come to something of a grinding halt. But no one mentions it. Not Davos. Not Tyrion. They are all aware of the same thing.

They are fucked.

They are not living. They are merely surviving.

He wonders, despondently, if this will be the rest of his days. Scraping and clawing desperately to keep the North from crumbling completely. Never getting further than this farce of a meagre existence.

He wants Dany.

The Lords are grumbling. Always grumbling. He can sense it. Feel it. As he should be able to. He’d been there before after all. And he’d not lived through it.

He can feel a mutiny brewing.

He wants Dany.

His cousins have the good sense to stay out of his way.

But he is under no delusions. He knows that Sansa is plotting something.

He wants Dany.

Food is becoming a truly dire issue, even with the already painfully strict rationing schedule he has the Keep on.

He wants Dany.

Then, finally, just over three moons since she left, Yara returns.

She shows up at Winterfell with three dozen covered wagons and a heavy guard.

He understands the guard – even though the Lords grumble about it. Food is more precious than gold, than gemstones, than a fucking Throne and a crown these days. He applauds Yara for protecting it with all she’s got.

“King Jon,” she greets him in the courtyard where he had come out to meet her.

“Queen Yara,” he says respectfully in response.

“Your cut of the food, as promised. Those daggers sold faster than a green boy spills himself.” She winks at him.

He barks out a laugh in response and she grins wickedly.

But then, so, so suddenly, she turns serious. “Is there a place we can talk? I have something for you.”

Some of the few remaining good men he has left crowd around him at that, glancing at Yara suspiciously, while she glares right back at them.

He waves them off with a nod of gratitude for their loyalty. “I’ll be fine.” He says to them.

To Yara he says, “Follow me to my solar. It’s cold. But it’s private.”

“Sounds like you just described every Northman.” She quips. And he laughs lightly as he leads her inside.

Once inside however her seriousness becomes tangible. So tangible he can almost taste it. It is so unlike her that he begins to feel unnerved. He was sure he could trust Yara, and yet…

“You’re certain that we’re alone?” she asks in a whisper. Her eyes are earnest, desperate, and he feels his fears melt away.

“I’m sure of it.”

“No one can hear us?”

“No one.” He promises her.

“I’m just the messenger,” she says, confusing and intriguing him all at once. “You can’t hate me for it, and I can’t answer all your questions. But I’ll answer the ones that I can.”

“What..?” he begins. But before he can finish his question she has removed something, with far more gentleness and reverence than he has ever seen displayed by anyone. Than he had ever thought possible from the fearsome Queen of the Iron Islands, from her leather satchel and placed it into his hands.

“I’ll leave you alone to look it over, but I’ll be right outside.” She says in a careful voice, barely above a whisper, before turning on her heels and exiting the room.

Once she has gone he looks down at his clasped hand and truly examines what she had pressed to it. What she had given him.

Tears are flowing down his face before his mind even has time to process the image fully.

It is a ring. A ring he knows better than he knows almost anything else. A ring that had never once left her finger. Her mother’s ring.

Dany’s ring.

He gasps and chokes on his breath as he gazes at it in awe.

But that is not all.

Attached to it, tied around the ring is a long, thin braid of hair. Hair that he would recognise anywhere. Hair that even if he had gone blind he would know from the fine, silken texture of it. Hair he had spent hours lazily, contentedly running his hands through. Hair he had gripped and pulled in moments of intense passion. Hair he had burrowed his face into at night, his very own pillow of finely spun silver.

And that braid is tied off, at both ends, with one of his own leather ties. He knows they are his. He makes them himself.

And the braid, the beautiful braid is tied around something.

A scroll.

His fingers felt thick as he struggles to extract and unroll the parchment. His heart beating so heavily in his chest that he can feel his every nerve, his entire body thrum violently along with its rhythm.

He wants that scroll. He wants it madly. But he cannot, will not, do anything that might hurt that precious braid of hair.

He has a feeling in his chest. A feeling dangerously close to hope. A feeling he dare not indulge as he gently works the scroll free.

Once he has he reads the words on the parchment. Then he reads them again, and again, and again. His body on fire, which is only fitting.

He reads it one more time before he, as carefully as he can, places the ring, the braid, and the scroll snugly into his pocket before dashing for the door, racing after Yara. Terrified that she has played a cruel trick and left him with it.

But she is there. As promised. Waiting.

She steps inside slowly and, graciously, she gives him time.

She waits for whatever it is he is grappling with.

There will never be enough time to come to terms with this.

But, but, there is absolutely no time to lose.

Too much time has been lost already.

He cannot breathe. But he manages to speak, stuttered and stumbled as it may be.

“Is it… It can’t be… She…”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading


End file.
